CHICAGO         . 

J4&V/ YOR^ 


HOME  SPUN  YARNS 


MARY  ABBOT  BAND. 


I  ILLUSTRATED. 


CHICAGO  AND  NEW  YORK. 

BELFOED,  OLAKKE  &  CO. 

1889. 


ONTENTS. 


THE  PONY'S  CHRISTMAS  PRESENT         .....       7 
OLD  CROMBIE  AND  HIS  BOYS  ....  13 

"THANK   YOU    TO    LET    MY    DlNNER    ALONE!"  .  .  .       IQ 

His  NATIVE  SEA    .......  20 

DANGER  BEHIND!        .......        V     23 

SOMEBODY'S  RELATIONS  ......  24 

GRETCHEN'S  TELEGRAPH      . 28 

A  SLED  LIKE  OTHER  BOYS      .....  35 

"To  WHIT!  To  WHIT!  To  WHO!" 36 

THE  STORY  OF  LOUISE  .  ....          40 

CHARLIE  GOING  TO  CHURCH  FOR  MAMMA    .         .         .         .49 

CHARLIE  PLAYING  DOCTOR       .         .         .         .         .         .          51 

CHARLIE  ON  HIS  WAY  TO  HOE  UNCLE'S  CORN      .         .         -52 

THE  GYPSY  CAMP 53 

PRAISE  HIM  A  LITTLE -5^ 

MEG'S  DELAY          ........          65 

A  NIGHT  IN  A  SCHOOLHOUSE .66 

THE  WISE  GOOSE 74 

LOST!  A  GOLD  WATCH 79 

"WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM?" 8 1 

CHARLIE  PLAYING  HACKMAN 88 

A  BOARDING- SCHOOL  STORY 89 

THE  METHODIST  HORSE  ,  101 


2071828 


vi  CONTENTS. 


PAG* 


PEARL    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .        103 

THE  FIDDLER'S  FARM          .         .         .         .         .         .         .no 

Miss  MISCHIEF       .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .        113 

LITTLE  WINNIE .   1 1 7 

FAITHFUL  JANET .120 

THE  SPARROWS .124 

BETTER  THAN  CANDY      .         .         .         .         .         .         .        127 

MANLY  SPORTS .129 

THE  FAVORED  ONE 131 

"ABSOLVO  TE"   .         . 142 

THE  SMALL  MISSIONARY          .  .         .         .         .        143 

ONE  OF  THE  FAMILY  .         .         .  .         .         .   147 

WELCOME!     .         . 153 

STUDIES  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY 155 

BESSIE'S  FIRST  PARTY 158 

MINCE- PIE  FOR  SUPPER .161 

THE  FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER      .         .         .         .         .         .165 

A  SUMMER  TEMPEST  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .168 

STOUT-HEARTED      ........         173 

PLEASURES  AKD  PERILS        .         .         .         .         .         .         .176 

A  SUSPICIOUS  CHARACTER 183 

BETTER  HAVE  STAID  AT  HOME    .         .         .  .         .185 

A  HERO 188 

"I  WONDER!" 191 

Miss  BLODGETT'S  BIRD .199 

"How  NOW,  GOMEZ?"        .  ...  203 


THE  PONY'S  CHRISTMAS 
PRESENT. 


ILLIONS    of    little    white   wings 
were  busy  enough,  the  day  before 
Christmas,    to     make     perfect 
weather;   and   so,  when  morn- 
ing came,  — 


"  Every  pine  and  fir  and  hemlock 

Wore  ermine  too  dear  for  an  earl ; 
And  the  poorest  twig  on  the  elm-tree 
Was  ridged  inch  deep  in  pearl." 

Millions    of    little    children   were     busv 


8  THE  PONY'S   CHRISTMAS  PRESENT. 

enough  indoors,  the  day  before  Christmas,  to  make 
perfect  happiness  for  fathers  and  mothers,  sisters  and 
brothers.  Indeed,  it  would  take  Santa  Claus  himself 
to  know  how  very  busy  little  snowflakes  and  little 
fingers  had  been,  to  make  this  lovely  morning  what 
it  was. 

In  the  big  house  on  the  hill,  two  small  pairs  of 
hands  had  trimmed  the  chimney-piece  with  holly  and 
mistletoe,  and  hung  the  windows  with  wreaths  and 
crosses,  all  in  hopes  that  their  absent  father  would 
return  in  season  to  see  it,  and  wish  them  a  merr) 
Christmas. 

It  was  lonely  enough  for  little  Guy  and  Elsie  in  the 
big  house. 

Only  servants  to  keep  them  company  since  their 
old  grandfather  died ;  for  their  mother  was  dead,  and 
their  father  had  long  been  travelling  in  foreign  lands. 

They  were  not  much  better  off  before  their  grand- 
father died.  He  was  not  an  affectionate  grandfather, 
but  an  irritable  old  man,  with  moods  of  tenderness,  it 
is  true,  but  so  generally  out  of  humor  that  the  children 
feared  rather  than  loved  him.  It  was  said  that  he  was 
not  always  so  unlovely ;  that  it  was  only  since  his 
daughter  Margery  ran  away  from  home,  and  married 
against  his  wish  her  music-teacher,  that  he  had  be- 
come so  morose.  He  disowned  her,  and  would  never 
look  at  the  pleading  letters  she  sent  begging  his 
forgiveness. 


THE   PONY'S   CHRISTMAS   PRESENT.  9 

And  so  the  years  went  by.  The  old  Squire  made 
his  will,  leaving  his  property  to  his  son  on  condition 
that  he  forfeit  it  all  if  any  was  shared  with  his  sister 
or  her  children.  Her  husband  had  died  in  the  early 
years  of  their  married  life ;  and  at  the  time  of  his 
death  she  had  once  more  appealed  to  her  father  to 
forgive  her.  She  sent  this  last  letter  through  her 
brother,  and  received  in  return  a  sarcastic  reply  from 
her  father,  that  he  would  furnish  her  means  to  trans- 
port her  family  to  the  village  near  the  town  of  her 
girlhood  home,  where  she  could  establish  herself  upon 
a  small  market-farm  belonging  to  him,  and  raise  vege- 
tables, which  would  be  purchased  at  "  the  great  house," 
as  his  residence  was  familiarly  called. 

Margery  was  as  proud  as  her  father,  and  her  first 
thought  was  to  reject  this  humiliating  offer ;  but  she 
looked  at  her  fatherless  little  children,  and  decided  to 
accept  this  only  means  in  her  power  of  supporting 
them. 

The  early  spring  before  the  Christmas  we  are  com- 
ing to,  therefore,  saw  '  her  busy  in  her  new  work  of 
raising  vegetables,  which  Carl,  the  oldest  child,  would 
take  to  the  kitchen-gate  of  his  grandfather's  mansion, 
carrying  back  to  his  mother  the  market  value  of  the 
vegetables. 

He  was  never  asked  to  come  into  the  house,  and 
never  was  sure  that  he  had  seen  his  grandfather. 
Once  he  fancied  he  saw  a  worn  old  face  with  tearful 


io  THE   PONY'S   CHRISTMAS  PRESENT. 

eyes  at  the  parlor  window ;  but  it  was  so  quickly  gone 
that  Carl  was  not  sure  that  it  was  but  a  shadow,  or 
his  own  imagination. 

For  Carl  was  an  imaginative  boy.  He  did  not 
fancy  the  hard  work  and  the  poor  cottage  that  were 
his  lot ;  and  often  and  often  was  dreaming  of  the  rich 
and  comfortable  home  where  his  mother  used  to  live. 
The  two  motherless  cousins  who  had  come  there  to 
stay  were  the  subject  also  of  Carl's  envy  and  dreams. 
They  were  forbidden  to  speak  to  the  market-boy,  but 
many  a  smile  had  been  exchanged  by  the  merry 
children. 

Carl  had  strict  orders  from  his  mother  never  to 
delay  longer  than  was  necessary  for  the  kitchen-girl 
to  take  in  the  vegetables  and  bring  back  the  money  in 
return.  During  this  little  delay,  Carl  was  accustomed 
to  wait  under  a  fine  old  English  elm,  which  stood  in 
the  back  yard.  It  had  been  struck  by  lightning  years 
ago ;  but  the  sturdy  tree  had  grown  on  in  spite  of  it, 
striving  to  hide  its  scars,  like  a  proud  heart  scorning  to 
die  of  grief.  Mrs.  Margery  told  her  children  that  she 
could  well  remember,  when  a  child,  of  hiding  in  the 
deep  crevice  the  lightning  had  burnt.  Later  on,  she 
could  only  put  her  doll  in  the  fissure ;  and,  at  last, 
the  deep  crack  served  as  a  secret  post-office  for  the 
letters  that  passed  between  her  and  their  poor  papa. 

This  tree,  then,  was  an  object  of  great  interest  to 
Carl  as  he  waited  for  his  money.  Race,  the  pony, 


THE   PONY'S   CHRISTMAS   PRESENT.  II 

liked  it  too.  He  had  outgrown  his  early  name  of 
"  Race."  The  children  thought  "  Standstill  "  would 
be  a  more  appropriate  title  now.  Certainly  he  liked 
nothing  better,  of  a  summer  morning,  than  to  stand 
in  the  shade  of  the  old  elm,  rubbing  his  head  against 
its  rough  trunk, --listening  to  its  stories,  Carl  fancied. 

This  day  before  Christmas,  when  the  snowflakes 
were  poised  on  the  edges  of  the  gray  clouds  ready  to 
take  flight,  Carl  rode  over  the  frozen  ground  with  his 
baskets  of  vegetables.  He  watched  no  longer  for  the 
white-haired  shadow  at  the  parlor  windows,  for  he 
knew  that  his  grandfather  was  dead.  He  knew,  too, 
of  the  will,  showing  the  unforgiving  spirit  to  the  last; 
and  more  closely  guarded  than  ever  did  his  young 
cousins  seem  to  be  from  their  poor  relation. 

It  was  chilly  waiting  there  in  "  the  dull,  hard  bitter- 
ness of  cold."  Race  seemed  to  think  so  too ;  and, 
while  Carl  dismounted  to  adjust  some  part  of  the 
harness,  the  capricious  pony,  true  to  his  real  name, 
suddenly  rubbed  his  head  against  the  friendly  elm, 
then  broke  into  a  sharp  gallop,  leaving  Carl  to  plod 
home  on  foot. 

Race  could  appreciate  comfort  as  well  as  his  dream- 
ing master,  and  was  glad  to  get  into  his  cosey  quarters, 
a  sort  of  shed  opening  directly  from  the  little  kitchen 
where  Mrs.  Margery  and  her  little  ones  were  oftenest 
to  be  found.  There  was  a  small  window  between  this 
kitchen  and  the  pony's  apartment ;  and  the  children 


12  THE   PONY'S   CHRISTMAS  PRESENT. 

were  fond  of  opening  the  shutters,  and  feeding  their 
pet  with  apples  and  lumps  of  sugar  when  they  could 
get  them. 

This  stormy  Christmas  Eve,  the  mother,  wishing  to 
gratify  her  children,  had  granted  their  request  that 
they  might  help  deck  their  bit  of  a  tree,  although  there 
would  then  be  no  surprise  for  them  in  the  morning. 
The  window-shutters  were  opened,  and  the  muslin  cur- 
tain drawn  back,  that  Race's  brown  eyes  might  peep  in 
and  see  the  rosy  Baldwin  that  the  dear  mother  was 
hanging  on  the  tree  for  him. 

It  was  little  Meeta  that  first  spied  something  flut- 
tering from  the  pony's  window,  that  lighted  by  her 
mother.  It  was  a  stiff,  folded  paper,  bearing  the 
marks  of  Race's  teeth  upon  it. 

Mrs.  Margery  picked  it  up,  and  turned  whiter  than 
her  widow's  cap  when  she  read  "  Last  Will  and  Tes- 
tament of  Geoffrey  Akerman." 

It  proved  to  be  genuine.  The  old  Squire,  in  his 
last  days,  had  written  it,  leaving  his  property  to  be 
equally  divided  between  his  son  Charles  and  his 
daughter  Margery ;  and  expressing  the  hope  that  the 
children  of  said  Charles  and  Margery  might  be  brought 
up  together  in  the  old  homestead. 

And  that  was  why  the  old  mansion  was  so  bright  on 
Christmas  night.  Margery  rejoiced,  with  tears  in  her 
sweet  blue  eyes,  as  she  welcomed  her  brother  to  their 
old  home ;  while  the  children  petted  Race,  in  return  for 


OLD   CROMBIE  AND  HIS  BOYS.  13 

the  Christmas  present  he  had  brought  them,  quite  as 
much  as  was  good  for  him. 

It  was  proved  that  the  Squire  had  secreted  his  last 
will  in  the  old  tree  where  his  daughter  used  to  hide  her 
love-letters.  Race  discovered  the  projecting  end  of  the 
document,  pulled  it  out  with  his  teeth,  and  ran  off  with' 
it,  as  you  have  heard,  causing  a  never-ending  wonder 
that  the  valuable  paper  had  not  been  destroyed. 


OLD  CROMBIE  AND  HIS   BOYS. 

HAT  brick  house  on  the  hill  was  Squire 
Densel's,  and  the  one  half-way  down  the 
hill  was  Capt.  Clark's,  and  the  two-story 
white  one  opposite  was  Dr.  Sweet's,  and 
then  came  Col.  Emerson's ;  but  the  pretty  cottage  just 
across  the  river  was  "  Old  Crombie's." 

Now,  you  must  know  that  the  Milburn  people 
greeted  one  another  courteously ;  and,  if  a  man  were 
generally  known  as  "Old  Crombie,"  it  was  just  because 
he  was  "  Old  Crombie,"  and  nothing  else. 

Old  Crombie's  boys  were  handsome  fellows :  they 
could  sing,  they  could  dance,  they  could  spell.  That 
was  one  of  the  accomplishments  of  Milburn  thirty 
years  ago ;  and  the  young  man  or  \voman  that  led  off 
in  a  spelling-match  wore  a  proud  feather  indeed. 


14  OLD   CROMBIE  AND  HIS  BOYS. 

But,  alas  !  that  was  not  all  the  Crombie  boys  could 
and  did  do.  As  Obadiah  Muckleworth,  the  village 
sage  and  shoemaker,  declared,  he  "  was  afeared  the 
Crombie  boys  were  capable  of  going  clean  through  the 
Ten  Commandments,  and  breaking  every  one  of  them." 

It  is  certain  that  chickens,  for  miles  around,  trembled 
on  their  roosts  if  they  heard  the  light  step  of  a  Crom- 
bie ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  horses  in  their  stalls 
might  tremble  too,  for  the  brightest  and  handsomest  of 
the  Crombie  boys  became  a  horse-thief. 

That  was  "  Frisco,"  as  he  was  called,  because  he 
attempted  to  run  away  to  California  once. 

"  Frisco  always  was  the  slyest  dog,"  said  Old  Crom- 
bie, with  a  boastful  air,  instead  of  the  shame  that  any 
decent  father  would  have  had  in  such  a  son.  "  Tell 
you,  that  chap  never  wanted  for  pin-money ;  but,  some- 
how or  other,  my  hens  didn't  seem  to  lay  wuth  a 
cent, -- that's  'fore  he  dared  to  visit  the  neighbors' 
roosts,  mind  ye!  One  Sunday,  when  I'd  ben --no,  I 
guess  I  hadn't  ben  to  church  that  day,"  said  the  wicked 
old  man,  with  an  unpleasant  smile,  —  "  Frisco  he  come 
down  the  river  road  with  his  hands  full  of  harebells. 
'Sonny,'  says  I,  'look  here!  If  you  rob  your  father's 
hens'  nests  any  more,  there'll  be  trouble  in  camp.' ' 

"Why,  father!"  says  he,  "when  I've  been  to  the 
trouble  of  getting  ma  some  flowers,  you  come  down  on 
me  like  that !  " 

"  *  No,  you  young  rascal ! '  says  I.     'I  come  down  on 


1 6  OLD   CROMBIE  AND  HIS  BOYS. 

you  like  that  /'  and  I  just  raised  my  cane,  and  gave  a 
smart  tap  or  two  on  top  of  his  cap.  Down  came  a 
stream  of  eggs,  —  yolk,  white,  shell  and  all.  '  You 
hearn  tell,'  says  I,  'of  jugglers  that  could  make  an 
omelet  in  your  hat?  Well,  I'm  one  of  'em.' ' 

This  was  Old  Crombie's  favorite  story  at  the  grog- 
shop which  he  frequented  ;  but  there  was  not  a  tippler 
so  degraded  but  looked  with  disgust  at  the  old  man, 
with  his  white  hair,  his  black,  wicked  eyes,  and  grin- 
ning face. 

Frisco,  as  I  have  said,  had  bigger  game  than  eggs 
now;  and  he  bore  the  unenviable  name  of  being  the 
greatest  horse-stealer  in  his  native  State. 

A  famous  trotting  mare  was  missing,  and  so  was 
Frisco.  The  keenest  detectives  in  the  State  were  on 
the  watch,  but  no  clew  could  be  found  to  either  horse 
or  rider. 

It  was  a  surprise  amounting  to  a  shock,  then,  when, 
on  a  Saturday  night,  as  Obadiah  Muckleworth  and  his 
brother  were  at  work  finishing  some  promised  job, 
the  shop-door  swung  open  lightly,  and  Frisco  entered. 
His  dark  eyes  had  a  hunted  look ;  and  as  he  took  the 
only  spare  chair,  and  rested  his  foot  against  the  shoe- 
maker's bench,  he  looked  as  if  he  were  at  last  in  harbor. 

"  Where  hail  from  now,  Frisco  ?  "  said  the  younger 
Muckleworth,  with  a  look  half  of  terror  and  half  01 
curiosity  toward  the  young  thief. 

"Canada,  just  now,"  said  young  Frisco,  tossing  his 


OLD   CROMBIE  AND  HIS  BOYS.  17 

hat  upon  the  floor,  "  and  my  pouch  here  has  the  best 
kind  of  lining ;  but,  rich  as  I  am,  I  don't  dare  to  buy  a 
pair  of  boots  in  the  New-England  States.  My  feet 
are  wet  and  sore;  and --you  are  so  good!-- 1  know 
you'll  cobble  these  old  boots  for  me,  if,  indeed,  they  are 
not  past  repair,  and  not  tell  of  me." 

"  Something  else  is  past  repair,  young  man,  and 
that's  yourself,  I  fear,"  said  the  younger  Muckleworth, 
with  a  short  laugh. 

Obadiah  stood  up,  a  blessed  picture  of  justice  and 
mercy  combined,  — 

"  Brother,  never  say  a  human  soul  is  past  repair  so 
long  as  there's  a  God  of  compassion  above  us.  Young 
Crombie, --I  don't  rightly  know  your  Christian  name, 
but  I'm  sure  it  ain't  '  Frisk-oh ! '  - 1  can  repair  that  old 
boot ;  and,  if  you  heed  my  advice,  you  need  not  be 
ashamed  to  show  your  head  and  buy  a  new  pair  when- 
ever you've  the  honest  money  to  pay  for  'em. 

"Go -to  your  man  that  you've  defrauded.  Give  back 
your  ill-gotten  gold,  and  give  yourself  up  to  justice; 
serve  out  your,  sentence  in  state's  prison ;  then  come 
to  me,  and  I'll  adopt  you.  It's  no  use  for  you  to  try  to 
do  right  under  the  name  of  Crombie." 

"  You  don't  really  mean  what  you  say ! "  exclaimed 
the  desperate  young  fellow,  with  the  first  tears  that 
had  ever  been  seen  in  his  brilliant  eyes  since  his 
babyhood. 

"  I  mean  just  what  I  say,"  said  the  good  man.     "  If 


iS  OLD   CROMBIE  AND  HIS  BOYS. 

my  Willie-boy,  that  died  when  he  was  an  innocent  child, 
had  lived  and  gone  astray,  I  am  only  doing  as  I  would 
wish  him  done  by." 

Old  Crombie's  son  did  as  he  was  advised ;  and, 
strengthened  by  the  kindness  of  the  good  shoemaker, 
went  through  with  all  the  humiliation  that  came  from 
giving  himself  up  to  justice.  It  was  a  rough  plough- 
share, but  it  prepared  the  ground  for  self-respect ;  and 
now  Robert  Muckleworth,  the  adopted  son  and  suc- 
cessor of  Obadiah,  owns  a  large  shoe  manufactory 
where  the  little  cobbler's  shop  once  stood.  He  is 
called  "  Mr.  Muckleworth,"  but  the  rest  of  the  family 
in  the  house  by  the  bridge  are  known  as  "Old  Crombie 
and  his  Boys  "  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 


THANK    YOU    '1O   LET  MY  DINNER   ALONE!         19 


"THANK    YOU    TO    LET    MY    DINNER    ALONE!" 


-  - 

,HAT'S  what  the  horse  said  to  the  pig ;  and  if 
he  said  any  thing  more,  nobody  could  under- 
stand him,  for  his  mouth  was  full,  as  you 
see. 

There  are  a  great  many  hateful  feelings, — 
anger,  jealousy,  greediness,  —  and,  for  every 
bad  thought,  there's  an  animal  just  like  it ;  the  fox 
for  slyness,  the  wolf  for  cruelty,  the  pig  for  greedi- 
ness, so  that  we  may  see  what  we  are  in  danger  of 
becoming. 


20  HIS  NATIVE  SEA. 


His  NATIVE  SEA. 

;HEN  other  boys  spoke  of  their  native  land, 
Ned  Harpswell  would  say  that  he  never 
had  any.  That  was  because  he  was  born 
on  board  ship.  So  was  his  sister  Dell. 
Mrs.  Harpswell  did  not  wish  to  stay  at  home 
alone  with  her  children,  but  "followed  the  sea"  as  well 
as  her  husband. 

Think  what  a  care  it  must  have  been,  to  bring  up 
these  two  young  Harpswells,  among  all  the  dangers 
and  privations  of  a  life  on  shipboard. 

She  was  always  planning  and  hoping  for  a  home. 
Her  husband  finally  persuaded  her  to  let  him  buy  a 
house,  and  she  was  to  furnish  it  as  she  pleased ;  "  and 
'twill  make  the  time  pass  quick,  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  for 
you  to  be  getting  ready  for  me." 

But,  for  all  his  cheery  words,  Capt.  Harpswell  was 
more  homesick  than  anybody  else,  when  he  set  sail 
without  his  dear  little  family,  to  be  gone  for  a  long 
year's  Voyage. 

Mrs.  Harpswell  took  great  pride  in  her  new  home,, 
counting    the  days  when  her  husband    should    r^tu/n. 


22  HIS  NATIVE  SEA. 


But,  oh,  dear !  this  is  one  of  the  true,  sad  stories  that 
does  not  come  out  as  we  would  wish  it. 

"  The  Bonny  Bird,"  Capt.  Harpswell's  vessel,  re- 
*  turned, --but  not  the  captain. 

In  the  picture  you  see  Mr.  MacDonald,'  the  first 
mate,  telling  the  story  which  Ned  has  already  heard 
so  many  times.  "  It  was  a  hurricane  of  a  night ;  and 
the  captain,  who  had  been  ill  some  days,  was  not  fit 
to  come  on  deck,  but  come  he  would,"  said  Mr.  Mac- 
Donald.  "He  was  always  one  to  be  in  the  thick  of 
danger,  when  there  was  any. 

"There  came  a  blinding  sheet  of  sleet  and  wind. 
We  hardly  knew  where  we  were,  any  of  us  ;  but  when 
it  had  passed  the  captain  was  gone.  There  was  such 
a  sea  no  boat  could  live  in  it,  and  we  could  not  even 
attempt  to  find  him.  He  was  just  caught  up  in  the 
wings  of  the  tempest,  Ned,  my  boy.  But  there's  One 
that  holds  the  winds  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  my  old 
mother  used  to  say,  and  we  must  believe  he  is  safe  in 
God's  hand." 

Mrs.  Harpswell  tried  to  be  brave,  and  make  home 
pleasant  to  her  children  ;  but  they  could  never  become 
quite  used  to  the  land.  For  years  they  would  call  the 
cellar  "  down  in  the  hole ;  "  up-stairs  was  "  aloft,"  and 
out  of  doors  was  "  ashore." 

If  Ned  were  missing,  he  was  sure  to  be  swimming 
or  sailing,  or  else  looking  longingly  at  his  "  native  sea." 

Dell  was  quite  as  much  of  a  sailor  too ;  and  now  that 


DANGER   BEHIND! 


years  have  gone  by,  and  gentle  Mrs.  Harps  well's  life  is 
over  here,  Ned  is  a  captain,  and  bright  little  Dell  a  cap- 
tain's wife,  "  sailing  the  seas  over." 


DANGER  BEHIND  i 

9    U 

HIS  young  man  owns  a  hobby-horse,  and  a  father 

and  uncles 

who  are 
willing  to  be 
camels  and  ele- 
phants at  a  min- 
ute's notice ;  but 
all  this  is  too 
safe. 

What  Charlie 
longs  for  is  a 
fiery,  untamed 
steed,  like  the 
one  in  the  pic- 
ture. He  is  now 
turning  a  sharp 
corner,  and  in 
less  than  a  second 
there'll  be  a  call 
for  mother,  and  Charlie  will  have  a  bad  headache. 


24  SOMEBODY'S  RELATIONS. 


SOMEBODY'S  RELATIONS. 

OW  disgusting!"   said  I,  when   I  came  to 
this  picture. 

"Why,"  said    little  Carrie,  "/  think  it's 
the  most  interesting  picture  of  all." 

Lucky  our  tastes  are  not  all  alike,  isn't"  it  ?  How- 
ever, monkeys  and  apes  and  baboons  are  very  curious 
and  interesting  creatures. 

Some  people --wise  people  too  —  think  they  are  a 
sort  of  cousin  to  us.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 

It  is  certain  that  the  ape  looks  very  much  like  us, 
and,  in  one  respect,  is  ahead  of  us. 

Did  you  ever  hear  your  mother  say,  "  I  wish  I  had 
two  pairs  of  hands"?  Perhaps  a  monkey-mother  said 
that  once,  for  she  and  the  monkey-father  and  all  the 
children  have  each  two  pairs  of  hands.  How  quickly 
they  could  dress  for  breakfast  if  they  wanted  to ! 

They  can  and  do  walk  on  their  hind  hands,  or  feet ; 
but  their  great  toes  are  thumbs.  Some  monkeys  have 
another  convenience  in  what  is  called  a  pre-hen-sile  tail, 
which  means  a  tail  that  can  hook  on  to  any  thing. 

What   a   convenience    that   would    be   for  boys    in 


26  SOMEBODY'S  RELATIONS. 

cherry-time,  and  two  pairs  of  hands  to  each  boy!  But 
even  they  might  not  be  satisfied,  and  would  probably 
long  for  more  than  one  mouth  apiece. 

It  was  great  fun  to  see  ever  so  many  little  monkeys, 
in  their  big  cage,  in  Central  Park,  New  York,  chase 
a  solemn-looking  monkey  that  had  a  piece  of  ginger- 
bread. 

They  darted  after  him  like  so  many  streaks  of  light- 
ning, and  I  thought  he  would  lose  his  lunch;  when 
suddenly,  he  suspended  himself  from  a  hook  in  the  top 
of  the  cage,  and  there  hung  like  an  odd  chandelier, 
while  he  ate  his  gingerbread  at  his  leisure.  So  you 
see  how  useful  a  pre-hen-sile  tail  may  be. 

It  is  rather  a  sad  little  monkey  that  we  see  shivering 
in  his  red  jacket,  and  minding  the  hand-organ  man  be- 
cause he  doesn't  dare  to  do  any  thing  else ;  but  I  am 
told  that  when  one  of  these  little  pets  is  comfortably 
cared  for  in  your  house,  he  is  seldom  sad  —  it  is  more 
apt  to  be  the  people  in  the  house  that  are  sad. 

Here  is  an  old  monkey  story  which  you  may  have 
heard.  A  parrot  and  a  monkey  were  once  pets  in  the 
same  home.  The  parrot  was  a  very  wicked  parrot, 
and  used  language  that  I  should  not  wish  to  repeat. 
The-  monkey  was  a  cruel  little  fellow ;  and  this  parrot 
and  this  monkey  did  not  love  one  another  as  they 
should,  and  it  wras  never  safe  to  leave  them  alone 
together. 

One    Sunday,   however,   when    the   family  were    at 


28  GRETCHEN'S    TELEGRAPH. 


church,  a  door  had  been  carelessly  left  open,  and   the 
monkey  made  a  call  upon  the  parrot. 

When  the  family  returned,  a  naughty  monkey  was 
hiding  somewhere,  a  heap  of  bright  feathers  was  scat- 
tered about,  and  poor  Polly,  who  had  been  picked  as 
bare  as  a  Thanksgiving  turkey,  croaked, - 

"We've  —  had  —  a — ter-ri-ble — time!" 

I  don't  think  of  any  more  monkey  stories  to-day,  but 
this  little  anecdote  shows  that  it  is  not  well  to  have  two 
pairs  of  hands  unless  one  can  use  them  properly. 


GRETCHEN'S    TELEGRAPH. 

HUMBLE  home  it  was  where  golden-haired 
Gretchen  lived,  but  it  was  as  happy  as  love 
could  make  it. 

When  Christmas  gathered  the  family  about 
the  gay  tree,  there  were  father  and  mother,  tall  brother 
Fritz,  sister  Hildegarde,  joyous  little  Gretchen,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  lovely  Catharine. 

She  was  not  a  sister,  but  "a  dearer  one  still,"    -so 
Fritz  thought. 

She  was  a  neighbor's  niece,  —  a  cross  old  neighbor, 
Herr  Zimmermann.      Orphan  Catharine  had  come  to 


30  GRETCHEN'S    TELEGRAPH. 

his  keeping  when  she  was  nine  years  old ;  and  from 
that  time,  if  there  were  one  thing  she  liked  above  an- 
other, Herr  Zimmermann  was  sure  to  forbid  it ;  and,  if 
there  were  one  thing  she  disliked  above  another,  he  was 
sure  to  command  it.  Because  blue  was  her  favorite 
color,  she  must  wear  red.  But,  ah !  he  could  not  make 
her  look  any  thing  but  lovely,  whatever  color  he  obliged 
her  to  wear. 

Gretchen's  good  mother  pitied  the  solitary  little 
maiden  with  so  dull  a  home,  —  only  this  cross-grained 
uncle  and  a  deaf  housekeeper ;  and  many  were  the 
friendly  greetings  offered  her  across  the  hedge. 

Herr  Zimmermann,  at  first,  was  not  disposed  to 
allow  his  niece  to  acquaint  herself  with  these  good 
people;  but  at  last  he  yielded,  and  there  was  always  a 
plate  for  Catharine  at  the  table  on  every  festive  day. 

When  Fritz  had  finished  his  studies  at  Heidelberg, 
and  had  begun  to  practise  medicine  sixty  miles  awray, 
Catharine  seemed  to  care  less  to  visit  her  friends.  She 
might  often  be  seen  under  the  trees  of  her  uncle's  lawn, 
writing  or  meditating,  with  a  sweet  and  pensive  look. 

Fritz  came  for  a  short  visit ;  and  there  was  a  joyful 
merry-making,  for  it  was  his  birthday,  and  twenty-five 
little  candles  winked  their  bright  eyes  at  the  big  cake 
that  the  mother  had  baked  for  the  occasion. 

Catharine  was  asked  to  be  there ;  and  how  lovely 
she  looked  when  the  gay  evening  was  over,  and  Fritz 
wrapped  her  red  cloak  around  her,  and  they  walked 
slowly  away  under  the  lindens  to  her  uncle's ! 


GRETCHEN'S   TELEGRAPH. 


Fritz  went  back  to  his  patients  next  morning,  and 
Catharine  was  not  seen  again  at  the  home  fireside  for 
many  a  long  day.  When  Gretchen  went  to  the  Herr's 
with  an  invitation  for  Catharine,  the  deaf  housekeeper 
shook  her  head. 

"  No  matter  if  I  can't  hear  you ! "  she  said  snap- 
pishly. "  It  makes  no  difference  what  you  say.  Our 
young  lady  is  to  go  to. your  house  never  more,  and  you 
need  not  be  asking  for  her." 

Gretchen  often  sorrowfully  waited  by  the  hedge,  but 
never  saw  Catharine  alone  again  anywhere  about  the 
garden  or  lawn  unless  she  were  walking  with  her  uncle, 
or  with  an  oldish  gentleman,  older  and  uglier,  if  pos- 
sible, than  the  Herr  himself. 

Matters  were  in  this  state  when,  one  day,  a  stranger 
from  Fritz's  new  home  called  to  see  Gretchen.  She 
met  him  gladly,  expecting  news  from  her  dear  brother. 
Nor  was  she  mistaken. 

The  young  stranger  reported  Fritz  quite  well,  and 
sending  hearty  greetings  to  his  family,  and  especially 
to  little  sister  Gretchen.  "  And  here,"  added  he,  "  is 
this  cage  with  a  pigeon  in  it.  The  letter  will  tell  you 
what  to  do,  little  one." 

The  friendly  stranger  was  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  see 
the  rest  of  the  family;  so,  nodding  good-by  to  the 
pleased  little  face  of  Gretchen,  he  hastened  for  the 
train, 

"  Dear  little  sister,"  Fritz  wrote,  "  herein  is  a  telegraph  foi 


32  GRETCHEN'S   TELEGRAPH. 

you,  or  for  me  I  should  rather  say.  Go  to  the  hedge  to-night, 
by  the  old  stile,  and  you  may  find  there  a  letter  for  me.  Tie 
this  firmly,  but  without  chafing  the  bird,  to  its  neck  or  leg. 
Feed  her  not  at  all  (this  will  be  hard  for  you  ;  but  so,  the  more 
surely,  will  she  come  back  to  me) ;  keep  her  in  the  dark  for 
eight  hours ;  dip  her  feet  in  cool  vinegar,  then  set  her  free,  with 
a  prayer,  my  own  little  Gretchen.  I  can  say  no  more ;  but 
you'll  do  this,  and  keep  it  all  to  yourself,  my  child,  for  you  may 
know  you  can  trust  BROTHER  FRITZ." 

Gretchen  was  perplexed.  Not  to  tell  Hildegarde, 
nor  even  the  dear  mother !  Not  to  feed  a  homesick 
bird,  whose  piteous  cry  made  the  child's  tender  heart 
ache!  But  these  stern  orders  were  from  dear  brother 
Fritz.  So  she  hid  the  fluttering  stranger  in  the  dark 
closet  of  her  chamber,  and  set  forth  for  the  hedge  to 
search  for  the  mysterious  letter. 

-Yes,  it  was  there,  almost  hidden  under  the  green. 
She  guarded  it  loyally,  of  course,  tied  it  firmly  around 
the  pigeon's  neck,  and  at  the  earliest  dawn  she  stole 
out  doors,  and,  not  forgetting  the  little  prayer  Fritz  had 
begged,  she  set  the  messenger  free. 

And  what  happened  next  but  an  angry  thump  at  the 
cottage  door !  No  friendly  hand  asking  admittance,  but 
Herr  Zimmermann's  stout  cane. 

Catharine  was  gone.  She  had  taken  the  night  ex- 
press for  Basle,  it  would  seem :  and  from  that  centre  of 
railways  no  one  might  tell  whither  she  had  gone,  unless, 
indeed,  his  neighbors  could  inform  him ;  but  they  were 
as  much  surprised  as  the  Herr  himself. 


GRETCHEN'S    TELEGRAPH.  33 

Little  Gretchen  by  the  door-step,  feeding  her  spar- 
rows, guessed  not  that  the  little  secret,  brother  Fritz 
had  intrusted  her  with,  had  any  thing  to  do  with  Catha- 
rine's flight.  But,  if  the  pigeon  could  have  read  the 
little  note  that  he  carried  so  quickly  to  Fritz,  he  would 
have  found  something  like  this:  — 

"  I  will  meet  you  at  Basle.  Uncle  cannot  be  more  displeased 
with  me  than  he  is  already,  for  I  have  told  him  I  will  never 
marry  Herr  Hoffman. 

"  I  have  found  out  that  large  property  should  have  been  mine, 
of  which  uncle  never  meant  to  tell  me ;  that  he  has  lost  it  in  his 
speculations,  and  hoped  to  have  assistance  from  Herr  Hoffman 
if  I  would  marry  him,  —  and  that  I  will  not,  mein  Fritz. 

"  I  have  drawn  my  money  from  the  bank ;  and,  though  I  like 
not  this  way  of  running  off  to  be  married,  there  seems  no  other 
way  for  us. 

"  And  so  farewell,  till  you  see  the  red  cloak  you  so  much  hate 
in  the  station  at  Basle." 

The  young  doctor  was  at  the  station  before  the  train 
arrived,  and  was  not  long  in  finding  the  red  cloak.  In 
less  than  half  an  hour  from  that  time,  Dr.  Fritz  and 
Catharine  were  quietly  married  in  the  parsonage  of  a 
good  Lutheran  minister;  and  morning  saw  them  at 
breakfast  in  Fritz's  usual  boarding-place,  where  they 
would  stay  while  furnishing  their  own  little  nest  of  a 
home. 

It  was  difficult  for  the  doctor  to  leave  his  patients; 


34  GRETCHEN' S   TELEGRAPH. 

but  they  must  meet  the  dear  parents  and  sisters  on  the 
next  birthday,  which  happened  to  be  Catharine's. 
.    The  birthday  loaf  was  a  bride's  cake,  and   trimmed 
with  orange-blossoms  instead  of  candles. 

"  I  did  not  know  how  lovely  Catharine  could  be/ 
said  Gretchen,  as  she  admired  her  new  sister  in  the  soft 
white  summer  dress. 

"  She  will  never  wear  red  again,"  Fritz  replied  ;  "  but 
I  never  saw  any  thing  that  looked  better  to  my  eye 
than  a  red  cloak  one  rainy  evening  in  the  Basle 
station." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  mother,  "  to  think  thou  wouldst  take 
an  innocent  pair  like  the  pigeon  and  our  little  Gretchen 
1o  bring  about  a  runaway  match!" 

"This  was  an  unusual  case,  thou  knowest,"  said 
Fritz;  "and  now  that  Herr  Zimmermann  is  appeased, 
and  all  are  happy,  let  us  try  the  bride's  cake." 


A    SLED   LIKE   OTHER   BOYS. 


35 


A  SLED  LIKE  OTHER  BOYS. 


T  is  of  no  use,"  said  papa.  "  That  boy  can  never 
be  made  to  behave  in  the  house.  He  must  have 
a  sled,  play 
freely  out 
doors,  and  work 
off  some  of  his 
mischief." 

Charlie's  ten- 
der-hearted moth- 
er looked  at  the 
dangerous  play- 
thing with  doubt- 
ful eyes.  Charlie 
thought  it  was 
just  a  beauty,— 
red  and  blue,  and 
a  golden  bird  to 
match  its  name, 
"  Swallow." 

Charlie  was 
warmly  dressed, 
cap,  and  ear-laps,  ulster,  red  mittens,  ~a.;.A  leggings. 

"And  now,  said  his  mother,  '  ycu  may  go,  Charlie, 


36     .  "TO    WHIT!    TO    WHIT!    TO    WHO!" 

if  you  won't  coast  where  it  is  steep,  or  icy,  or  where 
there  is  any  thing  in  the  way." 

Perhaps  Charlie's  ear-laps  were  too  thick ;  or  he 
may  have  thought -that  a  coast  that  wasn't  icy  or  steep 
was  no  fun  at  all,  and  that  he  would  do  as  he  pleased. 
However  that  may  be,  Charlie  did  not  steer  straight. 
Half-way  down  a  steep,  icy  hill,  was  an  ugly  tree.  As 
Charlie  and  the  "  Swallow  "  came  flying  down  at  a  fear- 
ful speed,  they  struck  against  the  tree. 

The  doctor  came  every  day  for  a  fortnight ;  and, 
while  poor  Charlie  lay  with  his  bandaged  arm,  he  had 
time  for  a  good  deal  of  thinking. 

He  has  learned  to  ask  older  people  what  he  may  do, 
and  to  heed  what  they  may  say  to  him.  But  he  is  as 
full  of  fun  as  ever,  this  bonny,  brown-eyed  Charlie. 


To  -WHIT!    To  WHIT!   To  WHOP 

HIS  is  the  worst-looking  owl  I  ever  saw; 
as  unlike  the  lovely  Christmas-card  owls 
that  sit  on  evergreen  trees,  and  wish  you  all 
sorts  of  nice  things,  as  a  very  cross  Nellie 
is  unlike  the  same  little  girl  when  she  is  in  good 
humor. 

Owls  are  not  exactly  cheerful   birds  ;  but    they  are 
generally  well-disposed,  and  do  not  attack  unless  they 


38  "TO   WHIT!    TO   WHIT!    TO   WHO!" 

must  do  so  to  earn  their  living  or  to  protect  their  little 
owls. 

Stuffed  owls  and  Christmas-card  owls  are  favorite 
ornaments,  and  familiar  to  everybody ;  but,  though 
there  are  forty  varieties  in  our  native  land,  I  never 
have  happened  to  see  but  one  live  one.  This  was  in  a 
barn  belonging  to  a  delightful  old  farmhouse  where  I 
had  been  invited  to  a  children's  party.  We  had  looked 
at  the  albums  and  gilt-edged  books  on  the  parlor  table, 
played  blind-man's-buff  in  the  dining-room,  had  a  candy- 
pull  in  the  kitchen  ;  and  then,  most  charming  of  all,  the 
farmer's  boy  told  us  that  there  was  a  live  owl  in  the 
barn  for  us  to  see. 

The  homesick  bird  was  perched  upon  a  wagon-wheel, 
and  his  yellow  eyes  were  whirling  around  and  around 
much  faster  than  the  wagon-wheel  ever  whirled  on  its 
most  rapid  journey. 

A  learned  book  tells  me  that  "daylight  bewilders 
owls,  and  causes  actual  pain  in  the  eye,  which  they 
seek  to  relieve  by  frequent  motion  of  the  third  eyelid 
or  nictitating  membrane  of  the  eye." 

But  we  children  did  not  know  all  that:  it  just 
seemed  very  funny  to  see  that  solemn  thing  perched 
on  the  wheel,  and  his  yellow  eyes  whirling  round  like 
the  quickest  kind  of  revolving  lights. 

Little  birds  know  very  well  that  light  makes  the  owl 
stupid ;  and  when  they  happen  to  catch  an  owl  awake 
by  day,  they  tease  him  terribly.  They  know  that  he 


"TO   WHIT!    TO   WHIT!    TO   WHO!"  39 

can't  catch  them  then,  and  they  just  improve  their 
chance  to  pay  up  old  scores. 

Rats  don't  love  owls,  but  owls  love  rats. 

How  do  you  think  it  would  do  to  tame  an  owl,  and 
keep  him  for  a  new  kind  of  pussy-cat?  He  can  hear  so 
very  quick.  You  may  know  his  feathers  grow  in  cone 
shape  about  his  ears,  forming  a  sort  of  ear-trumpet. 
He  could  hear  quicker  than  pussy ;  he  could  see  in  the 
dark  as  well  as  she ;  he  could  fly  much  faster  than  she 
can  scamper :  but,  oh,  if  he  should  happen  to  talk  out 
loud  in  the  night  with  his  terrible  voice,  we  would  want 
our  quiet  old  Tabby  back  again ! 


THE   STORY  OF  LOUISE, 


THE  STORY  OF  LOUISE. 


APT.   BURR  AGE    was    a    rich   old    man,    and 
"peculiar."      That  is,  he  had  a  strong  will,  and 
did  not  care  whether  other  people  approved  of  him  or 


THE   STORY  OF  LOUISE.  41. 

not.  He  meant  to  do  well  by  his  sister's  orphan  chil- 
dren. He  gave  them  a  home,  and,  in  his  opinion,  the 
best  education  to  be  had. 

Dexter,  the  boy,  was  big  and  strong,  and  could  win  a 
Greek  prize  or  a  foot-race  with  equal  ease. 

He  exactly  filled  the  programme  that  his  uncle  had 
planned  for  him,  and  became  just  the  well-furnished, 
manly  physician  that  he  was  designed  to  be. 

Louise  was  a  promising  child  also,  —  one  of  those 
bright  little  girls  that  are  always  pets  at  school ;  that 
appear  best  at  exhibitions,  children's  concerts,  and  the 
like,  when  their  excitable  little  nerves  would  far  better 
be  quieted  in  sleep. 

Louise  was  the  star  in  her  school,  and  graduated 
with  all  the  honors  ;  but,  just  as  she  was  receiving  her 
diploma,  she  fainted,  and  then,  for  years,  was  an  eclipse 
of  her  promise. 

It  was  a  fortunate  thing  that  she  had  a  doctor- 
brother, — -one  so  tender  and  strong  as  Dexter.  But 
he  could  not  be  always  with  her,  as  his  patients  were 
awaiting  his  calls  in  a  neighboring  town. 

And,  when  the  doctor  was  away,  Capt.  Burrage  in- 
sisted that  he  should  prescribe  for  his  niece. 

It  did  her  no  harm,  but  amused  her,  rather,  when  her 
uncle  sent  up  a  tiny  pair  of  scales  with  her  dinner,  and 
insisted  that  she  should  weigh  what  she  ate ;  but  an- 
other notion  of  his  was  very  trying.  "You  say,"  said 
he,  "  that  you  can't  walk,  Louise,  and  that  the  fatigue  of 


42  THE   STORY  OF  LOUISE. 

dressing  unfits  you  for  a  drive.  Now,  air  and  exercise 
you  must  have.  I  have  arranged  with  Pat  to  play  he 
is  a  horse.  Every  morning  he  is  to  come  to  your  door 
with  his  arms  folded  behind^  him  ;  you  are  to  take  a 
seat  as  if  they  were  a  side-saddle,  and  he  shall  trot 
around  the  house  three  times  at  a  gentle  pace."  -  "  Oh, 
please  let  me  ask  Dexter  if  he  thinks  that  is  best ! " 
pleaded  poor  Louise. 

"  I  am  your  guardian,"  said  her  uncle  ;  "  and  /  think 
it  best." 

"  But  what  will  the  neighbors  think  ?  "  exclaimed  the 
girl. 

An  unfortunate  thing  for  her  to  say,  for  it  made  the 
captain  more  determined  than  ever  to  carry  out  his  pet 
plan. 

When  Dexter  came  home,  he  noticed  unfavorable 
symptoms,  and  soon  found  they  were  occasioned  by 
the  nervous  distress  brought  about  by  this  unusual 
ride-out.  "  It  is  too  funny,  Dexter,"  said  Louise  hys- 
terically. "  Up  the  stairs  comes  Pat,  and  kneels  at  my 
door.  He  has  strict  orders  to  act  as  a  horse ;  and  I 
must  not  say  'Good-morning,'  but  'Get  up,  sir!' 

"  He  stumps  carefully  down  the  stairs,  and  out  the 
door.  I  am  picturesquely  dressed  with  an  old  red 
shawl  thrown  over  my  head,  crossed  in  front,  and  tied 
behind.  My  '  horse  '  trots  solemnly  three  times  around 
the  house,  while  '  the  Smiths,  Browns,  and  Robinsons ' 
appear  at  their  windows.  I  shall  be  insane,  Dexter,  if 
this  thing  is  kept  up  much  longer." 


THE   STORY  OF  LOUISE. 


43 


"  I'll  attend  to  that,"  said  the  young  doctor. 

His  first  plan  was  to  remove  Louise  to  the  seashore ; 
but  she  was  far  too  weak  to  bear  the  sight  of  strangers, 
and  the  necessity  of  "  dressing  up." 


"  Besides,"  as  she  dolefully  complained  to  her  brother, 
"it  is  dreadful  to  be  'an  object  I  Dexter.  I  find  the 
most  retired  spot  possible,  and  try  to  hide  under  my 
sunshade,  and  '  bury  myself  in  a  book,'  when  I  am  pain- 


44  THE   STORY  OF  LOUISE. 

fully  conscious  that  some  little  image  is  staring  at  me, 
trying  to  guess  whether  I'm  a  ghost,  or  no." 

"  I'll  attend  to  that"  said  the  doctor  again.  "  What 
you  must  have,  Lou,  is  change ;  but  you  must  get  it 
away  from  curious  eyes." 

"  Bernard  Knapp  has  a  yacht,  as  perhaps  you  know. 

"Well,"  continued  Dexter,  "  he  thinks  of  cruising 
about  for  a  fortnight,  and  has  invited  his  uncle  and 
aunt,  and  will  take  their  servants  along.  Now,  they'd 
like  nothing  better  than  to  have  you  go  with  them. 
You've  been  at  their  house  so  much,  they  are  exactly 
like  'own  folks.'  Fact,  if  I  did  not  know  that  I  am 
your  only  brother,  I  might  be  jealous  of  Bernard." 

Louise  embarked  as  gladly  as  if  the  sails  of  the  "Sea 
Gull"  were  real  wings  to  take  her  away  from  every 
thing  unpleasant.  Her  only  regret  was  in  leaving 
Dexter.  The  doctor  saw  his  feeble  sister  on  board, 
doubting,  at  the  last  minute,  whether  he  were  wise  to 
counsel  this  trip  for  one  who  had  been  for  years  an 
invalid.  "  Be  a  brother  to  her,  Bernard,"  he  said 
huskily. 

"  That  I  won't  promise,"  replied  Bernard  gayly.  Dex- 
ter was  satisfied,  however,  that  Louise  would  have 
excellent  care,  and  reported  favorably  to  their  uncle. 

There  never  could  have  been  a  sweeter  old  lady  than 
Mrs.  Knapp,  nor  a  more  fatherly  person  than  Mr. 
Knapp ;  and  their  nephew  was  the  nicest  sort  of  com- 
panion for  a  yachting  trip. 


46  THE  STORY  OF  LOUISE. 


Louise  felt  entirely  "at  home."  Her  sensation  of 
escape  from  everybody — Dexter  alone  excepted — was 
a  delight.  The  sparkling  sea-air  brought  her  sleep  that 
bromide  could  never  give,  and  an  appetite  that  no  other 
tonics  could  create. 

In  short,  Louise  breathed  health  with  every  breath, 
as  she  leaned  over  the  vessel's  side,  sometimes  alone, 
sometimes  accompanied  by  the  young  man  that  would 
not  consent  to  be  a  brother. 

I  wish  there  were  a  yacht  for  every  Louise  that  has 
been  overdriven  with  study  and  worry  and  excitement. 

This  Louise  went  away  looking  like  a  lily :  she 
returned,  her  brother  said,  like  a  "  tiger  lily,"  tanned 
and  freckled,  —  but  well. 

The  happy  voice  sang  again  by  the  long-silent  piano; 
busy  feet  trotted  up  stairs  and  down,  making  her  uncle's 
mansion  something  less  like  a  prison  and  more  like  a 
home. 

A  few  miles  from  the  city  is  a  picturesque  little 
place,  —  "so  English-y"  the  knowing  ones  that  have 
been  "  abroad  "  are  pleased  to  say.  , 

Most  of  the  homes  there  were  designed  by  the  now- 
famous  architect,  Bernard  Knapp.  His  own  home  is 
there,  looking  as  if  it  were  sitting  for  its  picture.  Ber- 
nard did  not  agree  to  be  the  brother  of  Louise ;  but  he 
afterward  promised  to  be  her  husband,  and  together 
they  have  helped  to  make  this  lovely  spot  what  it  is. 


What  do  the  birds  say,  I  wonder,  I  wonder, 
With  their  chitter  and  chatter  ?    It  isn't  all  play. 

Do  they  scold,  do  they  fret,  at  some  boggle  or 

blunder, 
As  we  fret,  as  we  scold,  day  after  day  ? 

Do  their  hearts  ever  ache,  I  wonder,  I  wonder, 
At  anything  else  than  the  danger  that  comes 

When  some  enemy  threatens  them  over  or  under 
The   great    leafy  boughs  of  their  great  le^fy 
homes  ? 


THE  STORY  OF  LOUISE. 


A  stranger,  passing  through  the  place  one  day, 
paused  to  notice  how  like  a  painted  picture  was  a 
cartful  of  yellow  straw  against  the  blue  September 
sky,  while  dogwood  vines  and  crimson  sumach  added 
to  the  coloring. 

"  Wonder  if  Bernard  Knapp  designed  this  scene  ?  " 
he  said  aloud.  A  little  girl  with  a  daisy-sweet  face, 
who  chanced  to  be  near,  answered,  "  Bernard  Knapp 
designs  most  every  thing." 

It  was  the  architect's  own  little  girl  that  spoke.  She 
is  seven  years  old,  and  can't  read.  Her  parents  are 
trying  the  experiment  of  letting  her  grow  up  as  much 
like  her  namesake,  "  Clover,"  as  possible,  leaving  books 
for  later  years,  —  "  lest,"  as  her  father  says,  "  there 
should  not  be  a  yacht  to  restore  her  health  when  she  is 
twenty  years  old." 


CHARLIE  GOING  TO  CHURCH  FOR  MAMMA.          49 


CHARLIE  GOING  TO  CHURCH  FOR  MAMMA. 

BOY   to    be    a    Charlie    must   have   merry 
eyes,  —  brown  eyes  are  best  for  a  Charlie; 
and  he  must  be  roguish,  but  so  winsome 
that  you  can't    help  loving  him. 
This   Charlie  was   born  the  first  of  April, — a   joke 
to  begin  with;   and  a  rather  serious  joke  the  young 
parents  found  him  to  be. 

They  agreed  that  he  should  be  brought  up  by  rule. 
A  clock  and  a  thermometer  hung  in  the  nursery,  and 
he  was  expected  to  be  as  exact  and  unfailing  as  they. 


50          CHARLIE  GOING  TO  CHURCH  FOR  MAMMA. 

And  so,  as  a  baby,  he  was ;  but,  as  soon  as  the 
"Charlie"  in  him  began  to  show  itself,  clocks  and 
thermometers  were  of  little  use. 

When  he  was  three-and-a-half,  it  happened,  one  sum- 
mer Sunday,  that  his  mamma  went  to  church,  leaving 
Charlie  with  Bridget. 

What  is  the  matter  with  Sunday  afternoons  in  July? 
People  are  so  afraid  that  there  is  going  to  be  a  shower 
that  they  stay  at  home,  when  there  is  never  a  drop  of 
rain;  or  else  they  go  to  church,  and  down  comes  a 
shower-bath.  Bridget  was  sleepy.  Charlie  minded 
the  wet  no  more  than  a  robin ;  and,  waiting  only  till 
Bridget's  eyes  were  shut,  he  took  an  umbrella,  trimmed 
his  hat  with  garden-flowers,  and  walked  down  to  the 
church. 

A  pause  in  the  minister's  sermon  gave  him  a  chance 
to  put  in  a  word. 

"Mamma!"  his  clear  little  voice  called,"!  b'ought 
an  umb'ella  for  oo,  so  oo  won't  spoil  oor  new  d'ess." 

The  sexton  hushed  Master  Charles  ;  and  the  next 
moment  a  lady  hurried,  blushing,  down  the  aisle,  and 
took  Charlie  and  the  umbrella  home. 


CHARLIE  PLAYING  DOCTOR. 


CHARLIE  PLAYING  DOCTOR. 


r'AMMA  was  ill.     The  doctor  left  his  hat  and 
cane   and  overcoat   on    the    hat-tree,  while   he 


gjSBIflL  went  up  stairs. 

^'^fjp  Charlie  thought. he  would  be  a  doctor,  just 
for  a  few  minutes'.  All  he  needed  was  papa's  old  boots 
in  the  down-stairs  entry. 

He  was  having  the  best  of  times,  when  Bridget 
rushed  in,  and  shook  the  little  fellow  quite  out  of  his 
boots.  "A  doctor  is  it  yez  are,  bad  luck  to  ye!  and  the 
ra'al  doctor  mad  enough  to  give  yez  a  whole  box  of 
pills  at  onct." 

Charlie  was  sorry.  He  did  not  mean  to  trouble  the 
doctor. 


52     CHARLIE  ON  HIS  WAY  TO  HOB  UNCLES  CORN. 


CHARLIE  ON  HIS  WAY  TO  HOE  UNCLE'S  CORN. 


OT  long  after  this,  mamma  and  Charlie  left  their 
city  home  for  a  little  visit  to  an  uncle  farmer. 

Charlie  thought  the  daisies  and  chickens  were 
worth  all  the  streets  of  Boston. 

One  morning  he  heard 
his  uncle  say,  that,  after  he 
had  gone  to  market,  he 
should  hoe  the  corn. 

Charlie  thought  it  would 
be  a  pleasant  surprise  to 
his  good  uncle  to  find  the 
corn  all  hoed ;  so,  when 
his  mother  supposed  he 
was  feeding  the  chickens, 
the  little  farmer  had  helped 
himself  to  tools,  and  had 
hoed  the  corn  by  the  roots, 
pulling  down  the  stalks 
and  stamping  upon  them  like  a  hungry  cow. 

That  was   indeed  a  "  surprise "  to  the  uncle,  and  an 
unpleasant  surprise  for  Charlie  followed. 


THE   GYPSY  CAMP.  53 


THE  GYPSY  CAMP. 


,fjCSNT   it   a   pretty  picture?     And   the   reality  is 
ft  prettier   still,  —  unless    it    should    be    near   your 


>  melon-patch. 

The  gypsies  are  the  handsomest  of  people ;  or,  hand- 
some gypsies  are  handsomer  than  other  handsome 
people.  They  have  fine  figures,  brilliant  eyes,  richest 
complexions,  and  an  air  of  mystery,  the  secret  of  which 
no  one  has  yet  been  able  to  solve. 

There's  not  a  queen  that  can  wear  velvets  and  dia- 
monds so  royally  as  a  gypsy  queen ;  but  nowadays 
velvets  and  diamonds  are  not  common  in  a  gypsy  camp, 
and  they  put  on  their  graceful  airs  with  bright  calicoes 
and  brass  jewelry. 

It  is  supposed  that  they  came  from  India :  the  dic- 
tionary says  so.  But  there  are  learned  guesses  and 
legends  reaching  away,  way  back  of  their  wanderings 
in  India. 

One  story  says  that  they  were  keepers  of  the  inn  in 
Bethlehem,  that  would  not  admit  Joseph  and  Mary 
that  Christmas  Eve  eighteen  hundred  and  eighty-two 
years  ago ;  and  that  for  this,  God  doomed  their  race  to 
a  wandering  life  forever. 


54  THE  GYPSY  CAMP. 

It  is  true  that  they  are  not  a  Christian  people :  their 
language  has  no  word  for  God,  immortality,  or  soul. 
Their  highest  religion  is,  "  Be  true  to  your  people,  be 
faithful  to  your  husband,  and  never  pay  any  debts 
except  those  owing  to  your  own  kindred." 

In  1 1 22  an  Austrian  monk  describes  them  as  "  Ish- 
maelites  who  go  peddling  through  the  wide  world,  hav- 
ing neither  house  nor  home,  cheating  the  people  with 
their  tricks,  and  deceiving  mankind,  but  not  openly." 

They  have  at  times  been  most  cruelly  treated,  ban- 
ished, outlawed,  slain.  In  1748  a  law  was  made  by  a 
Russian  emperor,  that  every  gypsy  beyond  the  age  of 
eighteen  should  be  hanged. 

Maria  Theresa  did  all  in  her  power  for  their  good. 
She  issued  laws  for  the  education  of  their  children, 
built  streets  for  them  in  her  cities,  and  gave  them 
tracts  of  land  in  the  country. 

But  these  humane  measures  did  no  lasting  good ; 
and  up  to  this  day  it  is  said  that  a  gypsy  child  who 
has  been  rescued  from  its  wild  life,  and  brought  up  in 
a  civilized  family,  is  sure  to  run  away  the  first  favor- 
able chance  to  "  the  gypsies'  free  mountains,  their 
plains  and  woods,  the  sun,  stars,  and  winds." 

We  may  some  day  see  them  reformed ;  but  probably 
next  summer,  in  driving  along  a  grassy  road,  you  will 
notice  a  pale  blue  smoke  lazily  curling  above  the  blue- 
berry bushes,  and  then  you  will  come  upon  a  brown- 
legged  boy,  or  a  brilliant  fortune-teller  with  a  red  shawl 


56  PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE. 

draped  above  her  black  braids.  And,  if  you  are  foolish 
enough  to  cross  her  palm  with  fifty  cents,  she  may  give 
you  the  pleasing  information  that  "you  will  quarrel 
with  your  dark-haired  friend,  and  marry  your  light- 
haired  one,  and  be  followed  to  your  grave  by  ten  lovely 
daughters." 


PRAISE  HIM  A  LITTLE. 


BRIGHT-FACED  boy,  in  a  blue  suit,  ran  up 
the  street  on  his  way  home  from  school. 

"  Shut  that  door  easy,  Ned !  "  was  the  wel- 
come that  greeted  him.  "  Now  hang  your  hat  up. 
Don't  go  up-stairs  two  steps  at  a  time, --you'll  tear 
the  carpet  to  pieces." 

The  face  which  had  been  bright  with  some  little 
school-triumph,  which  he  was  eager  "to  tell  mother," 
clouded  fast ;  and  it  was  a  discouraged-looking  boy  that 
slid  down  the  banisters,  regardless  of  his  mother's 
warning  "  Ned  !  Ned  !  you  will  break  your  neck !  " 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  that  boy,  sister  Annie  ?  "  said 
widow  Reed  mournfully,  as  he  rushed  past  her  into  the 
dining-room. 

Now,  the  trouble  was,  that  Ned's  mother  was  in  the 
power  of  two  cruel  spirits  which,  it  is  said,  torment 
Americans  more  than  other  people.  These  are  called 
"Hurry"  and  "Worry." 


PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE. 


57 


When    Mrs.   Reed's  good   husband  was   living,  and 
she  had  him  to  share  her  cares  and  supply  every  want, 


58  PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE. 

Ned  had  a  patient  and   loving  mother,  and  he  was  a 
good  boy. 

Now  all  was  changed.  Mr.  Reed's  sudden  death 
was  followed  by  the  shocking  news  to  his  family  that 
they  had  been  living  beyond  their  means,  and  that 
nothing  was  left  but  the  house  and  furniture. 

Mrs.  Reed  filled  her  house  with  boarders ;  and  then, 
as  if  grief  and  poverty  were  not  enough,  "  Hurry"  and 
"Worry"  came  too.  How  they  had  changed  the  gentle 
little  mother ! 

"  What  shall  I  do  with  that  boy  ?  "  she  repeated. 

" Praise  him  a  little"  said  her  sister. 

"  There's  nothing  to  praise  him  for,  and  no  time  to 
praise  him,"  moaned  Mrs.  Reed. 

"  Oh,  cheer  up,  poor  little  woman  !  "  and  good  Annie 
Fotheringay  drew  her  sister  into  her  arms,  as  she  had 
done  many  times  in  their  earlier  days. 

"  If  only  poor  Edmund's  property  had  not  been  lost 
in  that  dreadful  mine !  It  seems  that  the  dear  fellow 
hoped  to  surprise  me  some  day  with  a  big  fortune;  but 
he  had  not  counted  on  the  fearful  outlays  in  mining. 
No  wonder  he  broke  down  so  suddenly." 

"The  stock  is  still  in  his  name,  —  or  yours,  now," 
said  Mrs.  Fotheringay  thoughtfully. 

"  I  suppose  so ;  but  the  mine  is  given  up  for  want  of 
capital  to  work  it." 

"  Oh,  well,  Nellie !  don't  think  about  it,  then.  You 
have  your  house  and  your  dear  boy,  and  you  are  a 
famous  little  landlady." 


PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE.  59 

"  But  the  boarders  find  fault." 

"  Of  course  they  do !  That's  what  boarders  are  for, 
in  part.  And  now  I  must  start  for  home.  Mayn't  I 
take  Ned  with  me  ?  " 

"  But  his  school,  Annie !  " 

"  There's  more  than  one  school  for  young  folks,  and 
life  on  a  farm  isn't  a  bad  one." 

Mrs.  Annie  Fotheringay,  too,  was  a  widow.  She 
had  turned  a  pretty  little  country-seat  into  a  garden  of 
fruits  and  choice  vegetables.  There  was  a  hot-house, 
too,  which  was  her  pride,  and  furnished  floral  offerings 
for  great  occasions  for  miles  around. 

It  was  sorely  against  her  taste  to  torture  her  pinks 
and  rosebuds  on  wires,  and  form  them  into  stiff  funereal 
wreaths ;  but  she  had  to  harden  her  heart,  and  attend 
strictly  to  business  in  this  matter. 

But  close  economy  had  not  soured  Mrs.  Fotherin- 
gay's  bountiful  nature.  She  was  just  the  right  kind  of 
aunt  for  Ned  at  this  time. 

She  never  scolded  him  ;  but  he  found  himself  trying 
to  shut  doors  easy,  because  she  said  once  that  he  was 
so  gentle  in  the  house.  He  would  not  for  the  world 
forget  any  of  the  errands  she  intrusted  him  with,  —  not 
because  he  feared  a  sharp  reproof,  but  because  it  was 
so  pleasant  to  hear  her  "  That's  all  right,  Ned.  I  knew 
you  would  attend  to  business." 

He  resolved  that  he  would  do  errands  as  faithfully 
when  he  returned  home,  and  perhaps  his  mother  would 
be  more  like  her  old  self  again.  ' 


PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE. 


Meanwhile  she  had  found  that  Ned,  though  often 
the  object  of  her  fretting,  was  not  always  the  cause  of 
it.  It  really  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  a  relief  to  have 
some  one  about  that  she  could  have  a  right  to  scold. 

She  found  herself  so  irritable  one  morning  that  she 
had  hard  work  to  bear  with  the  fault-finding  of  her 
most  profitable  boarder,  one  Capt.  Lessard.  He  was 
one  of  those  ferret-like  mortals  who  must  know  the 
"  whys  and  wherefores  "  of  every  thing,  and  often  an- 
noy others  by  their  inquisitiveness. 

On  this  occasion  he  had  criticised  the  breakfast  in  a 
most  trying  way :  she  hurried  through  that  meal,  went 
to  her  room,  and,  turning  the  leaves  of  her  little  Bible, 
read  or  prayed  Agur's  prayer,  "  Remove  far  from  me 
poverty  and  riches." 

"  I  can't  bear  poverty,"  she  moaned. 

Knock  !  knock  !  at  her  door. 

It  was  Joan,  the  kitchen-girl,  with  a  telegram.  The 
yellow  envelope  eclipsed  all  lesser  worries  as  Mrs. 
Reed  read,  - 

"Ned  has  fallen  —  broken  his  arm  —  injured  internally  — 
come.  A.  FOTHERINGAY." 

Leaving  boarders  with  her  servants,  Mrs.  Reed  took 
the  next  train  to  Witham,  where  Mrs.  Fotheringay 
lived. 

Such  a  sweet  little  place!  In  the  midst  of  her 
anxiety,  Mrs.  Reed  was  glad  that  her  boy  had  been  in 


62  PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE. 

so  much  beauty  this  May  weather.  The  garden  was 
gay  with  hyacinths,  while  thousands  of  snow-white 
blossoms,  upheld  by  the  fruit-trees,  made  a  garden  in 
the  air  much  fairer  than  that  on  the  earth. 

Parting  the  vines  that  drooped  over  the  old-fashioned 
knocker,  she  was  about  to  raise  it,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  bright  Mrs.  Fotheringay  appeared,  loaded 
with  garden-tools. 

"Nellie!"  she  exclaimed,  " didn't  you  get  a  second 
telegram?  I  sent  another  after  that  first  scare.  My 
own  doctor  was  out  of  town  when  Ned  had  his  fall ; 
and,  in  my  fright,  I  sent  for  a  travelling  humbug  stop- 
ping at  the  village  hotel ;  and  he  told  me  what  I  tele- 
graphed you. 

"  Soon  after  this  '  doctor '  left,  Neddie  recovered  from 
the  shock  the  fall  had  given  him  ;  and,  for  a  boy  who 
was  said  to  have  a  broken  arm,  he  seemed  very  lively. 
In  fact,  dear  Nell,  he  is  not  hurt  in  the  least;  and  here 
he  comes  from  the  village  where  he  took  the  second 
despatch." 

Ned  was  glad  to  see  his  mother,  and  thought  she 
seemed  as  she  did  in  the  glad  old  days. 

Now  that  her  alarm  for  her  boy  had  taken  wing,  she 
talked  over  some  lesser  troubles  with  her  good  sister— 
among  others,  the  fault-finding  of  Capt.  Lessard. 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Mrs.  Fotheringay,  in  her  cheerful 
way,  "  that  Capt.  Lessard  may  prove  a  valuable  ac- 
quaintance." 


PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE.  63 

"  I  dare  say,"  assented  Mrs.  Reed,  feeling  that  she 
could  thankfully  put  up  with  any  annoyance,  now  that 
her  boy  was  safe.  "  You  are  always  right,  Annie. 
You  were  right  about  Ned.  Your  way  —  'to  praise 
him  a  little '  -  has  made  his  better  qualities  blossom 
like  your  hyacinths." 

"  Try  it  yourself,  then,"  said  her  sister  frankly,  "  or 
let  me  try  it  a  while  longer." 

Mrs.  Reed  felt  that  she  could  not  spare  Ned  at  this 
time,  when  she  was  longing  to  make  up  for  her  past 
fault-finding. 

She  returned  home  with  him  that  afternoon,  reaching 
the  house  as  the  boarders  were  coming  down  to  tea. 

"Mrs.  Reed!"  said  Capt.  Lessard  eagerly,  as  she 
met  him  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  "Boy  all  right? 
That's  good  !  Boys  have  as  many  lives  as  a  cat,  espe- 
cially when  they  fall  out  of  a  tree.  And  now,  madam, 
if  you'll  let  Ned  pass  on,  1  want  to  ask  you  one  ques- 
tion. What  was  the  name  of  the  mine  your  husband 
was  interested  in  ?  " 

"  It  was  called  '  The  Comfort,' "  said  she  briefly. 

"Well,  madam,  I  am  prepared  to  offer  you  sixty 
thousand  dollars  for  your  interest  in  that  mine ;  or^  I 
will  make  some  other  arrangement  by  which  you  may 
share  equally  with  me  the  liabilities  and  the  profits." 

Mrs.  Reed,  in  turn,  asked  a  question  or  two,  and 
learned,  beyond  doubt,  that  the  ore-veins  which  flowed 
through  the  surrounding  country  in  New  Mexico  un- 


64  PRAISE  HIM  A   LITTLE. 

doubtedly  enriched  "The  Comfort."  Wealthy  specu- 
lators were  eager  to  develop  it,  and  considered  the  large 
share  Mrs.  Reed  owned  easily  obtained  at  the  price 
which  they  paid  Capt.  Lessard  for  Mrs.  Reed's  interest. 
In  her  own  home,  then,  when  the  new  year  came,  was 
the  widow,  free  from  boarders,  independent,  happiest  in 
this,  that  she  had  learned  to  manage  her  boy  following 
her  good  sister's  simple  rule,  "Praise  him  a  little" 


66  A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSti. 


A  NIGHT  IN  A  SCHOOLHOUSE. 

T  was  a  September  day ;  and  in  the  nooning 
teacher  went  with  Sase,  Rebecca,  and  me, 
way  up  to  the  glen  for  harebells.  She  was 
just  the  loveliest  teacher,  Miss  Belcher  was, 
not  a  bit  prim  and  schoolma'am-y,  but  as  graceful  as 
a  lily,  and  always  dressed  so  charmingly  that  it  was  a 
delight  to  see  her. 

The  schoolhouse  was  ever  so  far  from  our  homes,  - 
it  wasn't  a  public  school  at  all,  —  and  was  generally 
called  "The  Institution."  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  it 
was  a  good  way  from  our  homes,  over  a  mile ;  and  we 
used  to  carry  our  dinners,  and  have  the  nicest  times  at 
the  noonings  that  ever  were,  especially  when  teacher 
staid  too.  That  Tuesday,  —  I  don't  believe  there  ever 
was  such  a  day!  —  out-doors  looked  like  a  splendid  oil 
painting.  Over  the  distant  woods  hung  a  delicious 
mist ;  and  nothing  could  have  been  softer  than  the 
summer-like  air,  though  it  was  past  "the  middle  of 
September. 

As   we  were    returning  with   our  spoils, --we    had 
found  mountain  laurel,  Indian  pipes,  and,  rarest  of  all, 


A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE. 


67 


a  humming-bird's  nest,  —  the  mist  suddenly  lost  its 
gay  colors  as  if  a  fire  shone  behind  it,  and  became  as 
gray  as  if  that  fire  had  burned  to  ashes. 

Miss  Belcher  shivered  in  her  muslin  spencer  ;  and  we 


were  glad  when  we  were  in  the  schoolhouse,  and  a  fire 
shook  the  old  box-stove,  and  made  almost  as  loud  a 
roar  as  the  wind  outside. 

For  a  rough  wind  had  sprung  up,  and,  in  less  than 


68  A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE. 

half  an  hour,  had  chased  every  summer  thing  out  of 
sight.  You  would  never  think  it  was  the  same  world 
that  it  had  looked  in  the  glen  when  we  girls  were  run- 
ning about  bareheaded.  And  it  rained,  —  oh,  how  it 
rained!  —  and  grew  so  dark.  Miss  Belcher  was  so 
frightened,  the  lessons  went  anyhow;  and  when  she 
asked  Mahala  Russ,  the  red-headed  girl  that  always 
was  stupid,  to  write  a  simple  sentence  on  the  black- 
board for  the  class  to  parse,  Mahala  wrote  "  spiders 
bight,"  and  Miss  Belcher  never  noticed  the  mistake. 

Long  before  four  o'clock,  the  fathers  and  brothers 
and  rubbers  and  wraps  began  to  come.  Rebecca  had 
two  brothers  and  a  father,  and  I  had  five  brothers  and 
a  father ;  so  we  were  sure  our  turn  would  come.  As 
for  Sase,  too,  supposing  Mr.  Bates,  her  father,  did  not 
come,  so  much  the  better,  for  she  could  go  home  with 
me.  The  Bates  family  and  ours  were  like  brothers 
and  sisters  ;  and  there  was  a  standing  agreement,  that 
if  Sase  or  I  failed  to  appear  at  our  own  ?  ^per-table,  it 
was  safe  to  conclude  that  we  were  together  at  the 
supper-table  of  the  other  house,  and  need  not  be 
expected  home  that  night. 

One  after  another  of  the  girls  was  sent  for,  and  then 
teacher's  turn  came.  She  did  not  like  to  leave  us  three 
alone,  but  her  cousin  was  in  a  hurry ;  so,  after  making 
sure  that  the  fire  was  nearly  out,  she  kissed  us  good-by, 
giving  the  key  in  charge  of  the  last  one  that  should  go. 

Sase  and   I   felt  a  bit  forsaken ;    but    Rebecca  was 


A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE.  69 

such  a  jolly  girl  there  was  no  such  thing  as  staying 
gloomy.  "  I  should  like  nothing  better,"  she  declared, 
"than  to  stay  here  all  night.  Wouldn't  it  be  cosey? 
Got  any  thing  left  for  supper?"  Our  dinner-baskets 
were  found  to  have  a  few  biscuits.  "We'll  toast  them," 
she  decided  promptly,  "  and  have  baked  apples  for  des- 
sert." Flinging  a  shawl  over  her  head,  she  dashed 
into  the  yard,  and  gathered  up  an  apronful  of  apples 
which  the  wind  had  blown  over  the  fence  from  Dr. 
Town's  adjacent  orchard. 

"  There  are  plenty  of  lights/'  she  said,  as  she  glanced 
around  at  the  tin  reflectors  on  the  walls,  before  which 
were  candles  all  ready  for  Professor  Dunton's  weekly 
writing-school  the  following  evening.  "  Lots  of  wood, 
too,  to  keep  up  the  fire ;  and  now  for  the  beds." 

By  this  time  Sase  and  I  had  fairly  entered  into  the 
spirit  of  camping  out.  There  were  old-fashioned  mov- 
able desks.  We  placed  them  side  by  side  till  we  had  a 
bedstead  large  enough,  then  placed  lexicons  for  pillows, 
and  our  light  wraps  for  coverlids. 

Just  as  our  housekeeping  was  in  this  promising 
state,  the  apples,  propped  on  slate-pencils,  slowly  roast- 
ing over  the  embers,  Rebecca's  brother  Ned  drove  up. 
He  earnestly  besought  us  to  ride  home  with  them,  but 
we  knew  it  would  take  him  so  far  out  of  his  way  that 
we  did  not  wish  to  trouble  him ;  besides,  of  course 
some  one  would  come  for  us.  It  wasn't  so  late  as  it 
looked,  to  be  sure,  Ned  said.  The  storm  made  it  so 
dark. 


70  A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE. 

And  dark  enough  it  did  seem  when  we  had  watched 
our  jolly  friend  out  of  sight,  and  come  back  to  our 
housekeeping.  The  apples  had  taken  advantage  of 
our  absence.  One  had  pitched  into  the  coals,  and  the 
rest  were  scorched.  It  was  really  too  dark  to  see 
when  you  stepped  outside  the  circle  of  light  that  came 
from  the  stove-door. 

We  lighted  a  few  candles.  How  the  rain  poured ! 
It  was  dripping  through  the  roof  in  places.  All  at 
once,  some  drops  falling  on  a  candle,  it  gave  a  sullen 
sputter  and  went  out. 

"  Lucky  that  isn't  our  only  candle,"  said  Sase.  How 
far  away  from  everybody  we  seemed !  There  was  in- 
deed no  house  very  near  us  ;  "The  Institution  "  being 
built  in  state  on  grounds  of  its  own,  well  walled  and 
shaded.  The  nearest  dwelling  was  a  small  cottage 
where  the  Widow  Rugby  lived.  She  was  one  of  those 
indispensable  characters  that  can  serve  in  almost  any 
capacity,  —  sewing,  house-cleaning,  or  nursing.  Mrs. 
Rugby  was  always,  as  she  expressed  it,  "able  an' 
willinY'  But  then  she  was  a  famous  gossip,  and  our 
mothers  often  reminded  us  to  be  very  careful  what  we 
said  before  Mrs.  Rugby. 

We  school-girls  disliked  her ;  for  she  used  to  peep 
through  the  walls  of  the  school-grounds,  and  report  to 
our  parents  if  we  ate  green  apples. 

It  was  a  comfort,  to-night,  to  see  the  light  from  her 
cottage  window ;  for  it  was  the  only  twinkle  of  life, 


A    NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE.  71 

and  not  a  carriage-wheel  had  rolled  by  since  Ned  and 
Rebecca  rode  away. 

We  were  not  sleepy.  In  fact,  Sarah  declared  she 
could  hear  every  thing  that  was  happening  for  ten 
miles  around.  The  sound  of  our  own  voices  at  last 
echoed  in  a  frightful  way ;  and  we  just  sat  with  hands 
close  clasped  in  silence,  only  stirring  occasionally,  like 
brave  lighthouse-keepers,  to  snuff  our  candles  with  a 
hair-pin. 

At  last  the  deep  clang  of  the  nine-o'clock  bell  smote 
our  hearts  with  despair.  That  meant  the  knell  of  all 
life  in  our  little  village  for  the  night.  The  postmaster 
would  turn  his  key,  and  go  home.  Lights  would  fade 
in  lower  stories  to  twinkle  in  upper  stories,  and  then 
go  out  altogether.  Standing  by  a  window  as  we 
trimmed  our  candles,  Sase  whispered,  in  utter  despair, 
"  Widow  Rugby  has  gone  up-stairs." 

Like  shipwrecked  mariners  we  watched  that  one  little 
ray  of  hope  in  her  window,  expecting  momentarily  to 
see  it  go  out.  But  no,  it  burned  cheerily  there. 

In  a  few  minutes  a  light  shone  in  another  window 
from  a  different  side  of  the  cottage.  "That's  'Lijah's  — 
'Lijah  Rugby's  room,"  said  Sase.  This  new  star  soon 
set  to  re-appear  down-stairs  ;  and  now  a  flickering  beam 
of  promise  moved  along  the  street,  and  came  nearer  — 
nearer  to  our  prison. 

Shortly  before  this,  Widow  Rugby  had  retired  to  her 
chamber.  'Lijah,  her  grown-up  son,  had  sought  his 


72  A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE. 

bed  an  hour  before.  "Readin5  allers  made  him  sleepy," 
he  declared,  "  and  there  was  nothin'  else  to  do  a  rainy 
night."  His  slumbers  were,  however,  disturbed  by  his 
mother's  shrill  voice.  It  was  her  custom  to  see  all  that 
could  be  seen  from  her  window  just  before  going  to 
bed,  to  satisfy  herself  that  her  little  world  was  right  for 
the  night,  as  she  bore  the  concerns  of  the  neighborhood 
on  her  mind,  "  and  could  tell,"  so  she  said,  "  by  the  out- 
side looks  of  a  house,  what  was  happening  inside,  be  it 
birth,  death,  or  marriage." 

"'Lijah!  'Lijah!"  she  called.  "I  thought  this  was 
Tuesday  night!" 

"  Well,  well,  what  if  it  is  ?  "  was  the  sleepy  response. 

"Then,  what's  the  Institution  lighted  up  fer?" 

"  Dunno." 

"  Do  you  suppose  Dunton  hed  the  writin'-school  to- 
night instead  of  Wednesday  ?  " 

"  Dunno." 

"  An'  if  he  hed,  would  there  be  anybody  to  it  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  and  don't  care." 

"  O  'Lijah !  'Lijah !  What  was  we  put  into  this 
mortal  world  for?" 

"  To  go  to  sleep,  for  one  thing,"  was  the  disrespectful 
reply. 

"  'Lijah  Tinkham  Rugby,  them  lights  mean  some- 
thin'  ;  an'  it  ain't  writin'-school !  But  if  you're  afraid 
to  go  an'  see,  I'll " 

"  I'd  like  to  see  something  I  was  afraid  of,"  said  the 


A   NIGHT  IN  A    SCHOOLHOUSE.  73 

tremendous  fellow,  landing  on  the  floor  with  a  bound 
that  made  the  cottage  tremble. 

And  it  was  'Lijah's  lantern  that  we  saw  bobbing 
hopefully  along  the  street  toward  us ;  and,  though  we 
had  not  a  day  ago  poked  fun  at  him,  we  welcomed  him 
as  an  angel  of  light, 

He  made  every  thing  safe  at  the  Institution  for  the 
night,  then  hung  his  lantern  around  his  neck,  and,  tak- 
ing us  in  his  arms,  he  wrapped  his  big  cloak  around  us, 
and  strode  through  the  torrent  to  his  mother's  cottage. 

"  I'll  never  hate  Widow  Rugby  again,  as  long  as  I 
live,"  I  whispered  Sase  in  deepest  penitence,  as  we 
were  left  alone  for  a  minute  in  the  cosiest  of  kitchens. 
Shall  I  ever  forget  that  open  fire,  with  the  ginger-tea 
brewing  on  the  hob,  the  comforting  odor  of  toast,  the 
warm  flannel  night-gowns  airing  for  us,  while  Widow 
Rugby,  never  happier,  told  us  delicious  tales  of  danger 
and  rescue,  all  "  coming  out "  beautifully,  even  if  she 
had  to  make  them  up  for  the  occasion,  as  we  very  well 
knew  ? 

I  suppose  Sase's  reception  at  home,  next  morning, 
was  much  like  mine. 

"  Good-morning,  Polly  dear.    All  well  at  the  Bates's?" 

"  Why  didn't  somebody  come  for  me  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Your  father  passed  Mr.  Bates  with  his  team. 
Father  was  riding  too.  He  said,  'I'll  get  your  daugh- 
ter. Excuse  me,  I'm  in  a  hurry,'  or  at  least  that  was 
what  father  thought  he  said." 


74  THE   WISE   GOOSE. 

What  Mr.  Bates  did  say  was,  "Will  you  get  my 
daughter?  Excuse  me,  I'm  in  a  hurry." 

"  Mrs.  Rugby  will  tell  you  about  it,  mother ! "  I  ex- 
claimed, too  indignant  at  the  way  in  which  we  had  been 
neglected  to  say  more. 

And  Mrs.  Rugby  told  the  story  with  such  additions 
and  illustrations  that  this  unvarnished  tale  bears  little 
resemblance  to  her  version  of  it. 


THE  WISE  GOOSE. 

OMEHOW  or  other,  geese  are  made  fun  of, 
though  they  saved   Rome,  and  nobody  knows 
how  many  croupy  children  since, — though  they 
give  their  feathers  for  pillows,  and  their  lives 
for  our  Christmas  dinners. 
There  was  once  a  goose, — or  perhaps  I  would  better 
say,  there  was  once  a  boy,  and  he  fed  some  geese. 

He  also  did  a  few  other  things.  He  was  a  poor  boy, 
nephew  of  a  couple  that  kept  a  place  called  "  The 
Woodland  Retreat,"  half-way  between  Milburn  and 
Stokerstown.  It  was  really  a  dreadful  place,  though  it 
might  look  cosey  enough  as  you  drove  by,  but  it  was  a 
pitfall *of  ruin;  and  the  swinging  sign,  "Entertainment 
for  Man  and  Beast,"  might  have  read,  "  Entertainment 
for  Beasts" 


76  THE    WISE   GOOSE. 

It  was  little  enough  like  men  that  its  patrons  be- 
haved after  partaking  of  the  "  entertainment "  there. 

How  poor  Dick  hated  the  whole  thing !  He  was  a 
rough  but  noble-looking  young  fellow,  with  fine  hopes 
that  nobody  had  guessed  of  some  day  being  a  scholar, 
and  giving  little  Jerry,  his  orphan  brother,  a  different 
home  from  the  carousing  "  Retreat." 

How  to  do  this  was  not  yet  clear  to  poor  Dick.  For 
the  present,  he  was  boy  of  all  work, --now  in  the 
kitchen,  now  in  the  bar,  now  at  the  forge,  now  —  and 
what  he  best  liked  —  caring  for  the  cows  or  chickens 
or  geese. 

It  was  a  lovely  day, --midsummer.  Sand  sparkled 
hot  in  the  country  roads  ;  but  the  pure,  bright  air  was 
neither  too  warm  nor  too  cool.  Swallows  curvetted 
hither  and  thither ;  and,  despite  the  dust,  there  was 
much  riding  past  the  Woodland  Retreat.  It  was  yet 
hardly  late  enough  for  the  people  to  pass,  that  —  didn't 
pass,  but  stopped  for  entertainment. 

Dick  was  busy  working  the  curved  handle  of  the 
bellows  of  the  forge ;  for,  however  unsteady  his  uncle 
made  the  feet  of  men,  he  was  renowned  for  sending 
off  horses  safely  shod. 

Just  at  this  time,  a  certain  mother  goose  was  con- 
ducting her  family  home  from  the  pond. 

Very  much  disgusted  was  she  with  them  because, 
being  chickens,  they  declined  to  swim,  though  urged 
by  both  precept  and  example. 


THE   WISE   GOOSE.  7-7 

This  was  probably  why  she  was  feeling  irritable,  and 
insisted  that  her  trying  brood  should  cross  the  road 
just  as  a  high-spirited  horse  came  trotting  along. 

This  horse  had  just  passed  the  open  door  of  the 
shop  where  Dick  was  at  work  in  the  heat. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight,  —  the  judge's  daughter,  Miss 
Ethel,  in  her  dark-blue  riding-habit,  her  lovely  golden 
hair  dancing  like  sunbeams,  her  firm  little  hands  guid- 
ing the  black  horse  she  rode. 

Behind  her  followed  her  young  brother  Sam,  on  a 
less  spirited  nag.  Both  the  judge's  children  were  at 
home  on  a  vacation,  and  the  sight  of  them  set  Dick 
a-dream-ing  over  the  schooling  that  he  so  longed  to 
have. 

A  very  short  dream,  when,  - 

"  Squaw-k  !  squaw-k !  "  from  mother  goose. 

Dick's  uncle  remarked  that  that  goose  was  not  a 
wise  bird  (using  different  language  from  what  you  or 
I  would  use  to  express  the  same  idea),  and  started  for 
the  rescue  with  hammer  in  hand.  But  Dick's  swift 
feet  outran  him ;  and  Dick's  strong  hands  grasped  the 
bridle,  and  stopped  the  horse,  as  the  last  little  yellow 
chick  scooted  after  its  noisy  stepmother. 

For  some  minutes  the  eyes  of  the  black  horse  were 
like  the  forge-fire,  with  sparks  flashing  out  of  them, 
while  the  frightened  creature's  breath  came  in  quick 
gasps. 

He  calmed  at  last,  with  those  strong  hands  holding 


;8  THE   WISE   GOOSE. 

him  in,  and  the  soft  hands  of  his  mistress  patting  him 
gently,  and  saying, — 

"  Why,  Jupiter !  what  a  goose  you  are  !  " 

But  mother  goose  was  not  so  much  of  a  goose  after 
all.  In  fact,  it  must  have  been  a  contrived  plan  of  hers 
to  frighten  the  judge's  horse,  and  let  Dick  save  sweet 
Miss  Ethel. 

Of  course  the  judge  would  do  something  handsome 
for  the  brave  boy. 

And  so  Dick  left  the  groggery  in  the  woods,  and 
went  to  a  boys'  school  in  Milburn  ;  and,  in  due  time, 
the  little  brother  went  too,  and  both  became  good 
scholars  and  temperance  men. 

Mother  goose  couldn't  teach  her  chickens  to  swim ; 
but  she  was  a  wise  goose,  you  see,  for  all  that. 


LOST!    A    GOLD    WATCH. 


79 


LOST!  A  GOLD  WATCH. 


stopped  under  the  linden-tree  in 
front  of  Parson  Blaikie's  windows  to  read  that 
notice ;  and  everybody  that  knew  the  parson  said, 
"  What  a  shame  !  "  for  the  parson's  gold  hunting-wacch 
seemed  a  part  of  himself.  Years  ago,  when  he  was  a 


8o  LOST!    A    GOLD    WATCH. 

long-haired  Bovvdoin  student,  teaching  in  his  vacations 
to  pay  his  way,  this  watch  had  been  given  him  by  a 
class  of  young  ladies ;  and  he  delighted  to  tell  of  his 
surprise  when  it  was  handed  him  as  a  farewell  token 
by  the  youngest  and  prettiest  of  the  class. 

But  nothing  was  too  precious  for  grandpa's  pet ! 
Babykins'  mamma  had  gone  to  the  city;  and  when 
babykins  waked,  frightened  and  inclined  to  cry,  grand- 
pa charmed  him  with  the  wonderful  hunting-watch,  — 
showed  him  the  way  it  opened,  the  whirling  wheels, 
the  jewels  inside  that  kept  their  precious  eyes  open  day 
and  night. 

But  soon  the  round  little  face  was  ploughed  with 
frowns,  and  tears  brimmed  over  the  brown  eyes. 

Babykins  must  have  the  watch  himself. 

The  tears  \von  grandpa. 

Babykins  held  the  precious  toy. 

Tears  again. 

Babykins  must  take  it  on  the  door-step. 

What  a  grandpa!  But  then,  he  meant  to  watch  him 
every  minute ;  only  leave  his  pet  a  second  while  he 
found  the  daily  paper :  then  two  happy  mortals,  grand- 
pa and  babykins,  could  enjoy  out-doors  and  the  watch 
tog'ether. 

Back  came  grandpa  almost  before  you  could  say 
"  Jack  Robinson,"  -  but  the  watch  was  gone. 

Baby's  two  words  were  "  mamma "  and  "  Deddie " 
(meaning  brother  Edward),  so  he.£ould  give  no  account 
of  the  lost  property. 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM?  8 1 

Grandpa  searched,  everybody  in  the  house  searched, 
policemen  searched,  a  notice  was  written  for  the  tree  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  a  few  hours  later  was  printed  in 
all  the  evening  papers. 

But  grandpa's  watch  never,  never  came  back. 

That  good  old  watch!  It  had  never  failed  to  tell 
grandpa  when  it  was  time  for  church,  and  for  funerals 
and  weddings.  It  faithfully  pointed  to  early  bedtime 
and  early  rising,  and  was  in  every  way  such  a  well- 
brought-up  gold  watch. 

To  think  it  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  thieves ! 

But  I  suppose  it  did.  We  never  knew.  There's  no 
"  coming  out ''  to  this  story.  Babykins  can't  tell,  and 
he's  the  only  one  in  our  house  that  knows. 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM? 

HERE  was  never  a  king  that  was  more  of  a 
monarch  than  Willis  Fay  of  Fay  &  Co. 

His  manufactories  made  a  little  kingdom  by 
itself.  There  was  a  chapel,  a  schoolhouse,  a  grocery, 
and  twoscore  cottages,  all  supported  by  Fay  &  Co. 

And,  if  Willis  F'ay  was  king,  Mrs.  Fay  was  queen, 
a  mother  as  well  as  queen,  looking  well  after  the  inter- 
ests of  the  little  colony. 

Late  in  life  a  son  was  born  to  them ;  and  then  the 


82  WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM? 

care  of  outside  families  was  given  up  in  a  measure, 
while  her  attention  centred  upon  this  lovely  boy. 

When  he  was  about  two  years  old,  his  mother  was 
aware  that  he  was  becoming  more  and  more  selfish 
every  day  of  his  life.  His  father  saw  it  too. 

"I  have  a  plan,"  said  Airs.  Fay,  at  supper,  one  even- 
ing. "Willie  will  just  be  spoiled  if  he  goes  on  in  this 
way.  What  would  you  say  if  I  should  go  into  Boston 
to-morrow,  and  visit  some  orphan-home,  and  find  a 
little  girl  to  adopt  ?  If  Willie  could  have  a  sister  to 
grow  up  with  him,  I  think  it  would  be  the  best  thing 
we  could  do  for  him." 

Mr.  Fay  looked  sober.  "I  don't  know,  mother.  It's 
going  to  be  a  risky  enterprise.  But  I  agree  with  you, 
something  must  be  done ;  and  this  may  be  the  best 
thing." 

Little  Willie  was  pacified  all  day  by  comforting 
promises  from  his  nurse,  that  mamma  had  gone  to 
Boston  to  buy  him  a  sister.  At  five  o'clock,  sure 
enough,  the  new  sister  came.  She  was  a  bright  little 
thing,  with  brown  eyes  like  Willie's  own,  a  sweet 
saucy  mouth,  and  a  crown  of  wilful  black  curls. 

"And  so  this  is  the  sister  that  is  going  to  tame 
Willie!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Fay,  as  the  restless  midget 
dashed  across  the  room,  and  snatched  an  apple  from  the 
hand  of  the  astonished  boy.  "Why  didn't  you  pick  out 
one  of  these  meek-looking  little  girls,  Sarah  Jane  ?  " 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said   Mrs.  Fay  laughing,  "  this 


WHAT  BECAME   OF  THEM?  ,  <    83 

one  attracted  me  because  she  is  the  very  image  of 
Will.  Don't  you  say  so  ?  " 

She  stood  the  two  little  "  blackberries,"  as  Mr.  Fay 
called  them,  against  the  wall,  and  a  bright  little  pair 
indeed  they  were. 

The  little  girl  was  one  of  a  family  of  three  children 
left  at  the  home  for  adoption.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fay  gave 
the  child  their  name  and  the  christened  name  of  Aster, 
which  was  duly  bestowed  upon  her  at  the  Fay  Chapel 
on  Michaelmas  Day. 

The  altar  was  trimmed  with  Michaelmas  daisies, 
while  stars  wrought  out  of  the  different  varieties  — 
white,  lavender,  or  purple --hung  in  the  Gothic  win- 
dows. And  a  star  among  all  was  the  little  Aster,  with 
her  shining  eyes,  and  a  wreath  of  the  white  flowers 
whose  name  she  bore  resting  on  her  black  curls. 

Years  went  by,  increasing  the  love  and  interest  for 
the  child  so  heartily  adopted. 

By  the  time  she  was  seventeen,  the  little  colony  of 
Fay's  Mills  was  known  as  Fayville.  A  wonderful 
mineral-spring  had  been  discovered  in  the  vicinity ;  a 
rustic  park  was  laid  out,  and  city  visitors  thronged  the 
place  in  pleasant  summer  weather.  Up  to  this  time, 
Aster  had  always  believed  she  was  Willie's  own  sister. 
It  had  been  the  desire  of  the  Fays  to  bring  her  up  as 
their  own  child,  and  to  keep  from  her  her  real  name. 

Somehow  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  had  come  to  Aster 
by  the  careless  remark  of  an  outsider,  and  she  at  once 
asked  her  mother  if  it  could  be  possible. 


84  WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM? 

"  Why,  mother !  "  she  cried,  "  what  an  absurd  story, 
when  I  am  '  Fay  all  over,'  as  I've  often  heard  you  say ; 
arid  some  people  even  take  me  to  be  Willie's  twin 
sister! " 

Mrs.  Fay  could  not  avoid  a  direct  answer.  So,  quite 
as  heart-broken  as  Aster  herself,  she  admitted  that  she 
was  not  her  own  child. 

"  Then  I  must  find  out  where  I  do  belong ! "  ex- 
claimed the  hasty  girl ;  and  she  at  once  started  off  with 
the  intention  of  searching  through  the  different  Chil- 
dren's Homes  in  Boston,  to  find  some  clew  to  her  par- 
ents ;  for  Mrs.  Fay  would  tell  her  no  more,  only  begged 
her  to  still  be  their  own  dear  child. 

Aster's  mind  wavered  as  soon  as  she  left  the  house ; 
and  she  strolled  into  the  little  park,  and  idly  watched  a 
young  couple  that  had  just  come  in  the  half-hour  boat 
that  plied  between  Fayville  and  the  railroad-station 
below. 

It  was  evident  that  this  couple  were  strangers  to  one 
another  by  their  indifferent  air.  The  young  lady  ap- 
peared quite  as  sad  as  Aster  herself ;  and,  after  strolling 
about  in  an  uncertain  way  for  a  while,  finally  seated 
herself  on  the  rustic  bench  where  Aster  was  meditating. 
The  young  man  also  seemed  in  "  a  brown  study,"  as  he 
leaned  against  a  fence  near  the  mill-pond,  apparently 
too  much  interested  in  his  own  thoughts  to  notice 
anybody. 

Presently  the  strange  young  lady  inquired,  "  Can  you 
tell  me  where  Miss  Fay  lives  ?  " 


86  WHAT  BECAME   OF  THEM? 

"  I  suppose  I  am  the  person  you  mean,"  said  Aster 
sadly ;  "  but  I  have  just  found  out  that  that  name  does 
not  belong  to  me." 

"  I  came  here  to  make  some  inquiries  about  Miss 
Aster  Fay,"  continued  the  stranger ;  "  but  I  think  I 
would  better  see  Mrs.  Willis  Fay." 

Aster  went  with  her  to  the  dear  home.  As  the 
young  ladies  were  entering  the  door,  a  voice  caused 
them  to  look  around. 

"  Beg  pardon,"  said  the  stranger  Aster  had  noticed  in 
the  park,  "  I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Fay,  if  I  do  not  intrude." 

The  good  lady  was  soon  at  the  door. 

"  I  should  be  happy  to  introduce  you  to  my  mother, 
Mrs.  Fay  I  mean,  if  I  knew  your  names,"  said  Aster. 

"Miss  Brooks,-- Helen  Brooks,"  said  the  young 
lady. 

"  Brooks  !  My  name  is  Brooks  !  "  exclaimed  the 
young  man. 

"  Brooks --  Brooks  "  -repeated  Mrs.  Fay  in  a  dazed 
manner. 

"  Yes,  Brooks,  Brooks,"  mimicked  Aster,  "  but  don't 
'  flow  on  forever ! '  If  there  is  any  way  out  of  this 
puzzle,  I  should  be  glad  to  know  it." 

Mrs.  Fay  seated  the  young  people,  and  told  them 
this  little  story  :  - 

"  Fifteen  years  ago,  a  young  widow  with  three  little 
children  believed  herself  to  be  incurably  ill.  She  had  a 
little  property,  but  no  near  relatives.  Having  confi- 


WHAT  BECAME   OF  THEM?  87 

dence  in  a  certain  home  for  orphans,  she  committed  her 
children  to  its  management. 

"  She  willed  her  property  to  the  asylum;  but  it  never 
received  it,  for  the  very  good  reason  that  the  lady  did 
not  die.  She  submitted  to  a  surgical  operation  in  the 
hospital  where  she  had  expected  to  spend  her  few  re- 
maining days ;  and  not  only  was  her  life  spared,  but 
she  became  quite  well,  and,  naturally,  wanted  her  chil- 
dren again.  The  older  daughter  she  recovered ;  the 
son  she  could  not  find  ;  the  youngest  child,"  said  poor 
Mrs.  Fay,  speaking  with  great  difficulty,  "was  so  much 
loved  by  her  adopted  parents  that  they  could  not  give 
her  up ;  and  her  mother,  feeling  it  would  be  for  the 
child's  advantage  to  remain  with  these  selfish  people, 
consented  to  let  her  do  so." 

Young  Mr.  Brooks  told  a  chapter  in  this  same  story 
which  we  cannot  have  time  to  hear,  and  Miss  Brooks 
told  another  chapter.  Suffice  it  to  say,  they  proved 
without  doubt  that  Aster  was  their  sister.  She  felt 
that  it  would  be  best  for  her  to  go  back  with  them  to 
her  own  mother,  and  she  soon  became  very  fond  of 
them  all :  but  her  heart  was  somewhere  else ;  and,  by 
the  time  she  was  twenty  years  old,  the  little  chapel  at 
Fayville  again  shone  with  Michaelmas  daisies,  and 
good  Mrs.  Fay  received  Aster  as  daughter-in-law,  re- 
joicing in  the  pretty  new  home  across  the  street,  where 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Willie  Fay  began  their  housekeeping. 


\ 


88 


CHARLIE   PLAYING   HACKMAN. 


CHARLIE  PLAYING  HACKMAN. 
• 

'HARLIE'S  journey  gave  him  many  new  ideas; 
and  one  was  a  wish  to  be  a  hackman. 

To  be  a  hackman,  one  must  have  a  hack  and 
horses :  it  is  also  a  good  plan  to  have  passengers 
smd  trunks.     Charlie  could  only  find  a  trunk,  and   he 


began   "  being    hackman "   with    that.      It   was    only   a 
dolly's  trunk,  but  big  enough  to  hold  mamma's  watch, 


A    BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY.  89 

and  the  treasures  in  her  upper  drawer.  Then  he  trotted 
down  the  street.  Seeing  a  door  invitingly  open,  he 
went  in,  astonished  the  people  in  the  parlor  by  saying, 
"Trunk  for  you,  ma'am!"  and  then  rushed  away,  —  a 
remarkable  hackman,  not  to  collect  his  pay!  The 
people  in  this  strange  house  were  honest  people,  and, 
after  a  good  deal  of  trouble,  found  where  the  trunk 
belonged. 

Charlie  promised  never  to  be  a  hackman  again. 


A    BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 

parlor  at  Grove  Seminary  was  crowded  with 
p  young  ladies   just   arrived,  and  waiting  to  have 
their    rooms    assigned    them.       Some  were    old 
scholars,  and  were  sure  of  their  location  :  many 
were  new-comers,  alone,  or  with  their  parents. 

Occasionally  a  door  would  open,  and  the  preceptor's 
voice  would  call  two  names.  It  was  a  study  to  see  the 
first  looks  exchanged  by  the  owners  of  these  names, 
strangers  to  each  other  in  many  instances,  but  now  to 
assume  the  familiar  relation  of  "  chum." 

"Miss  Adams!  Miss  Gonsalez !  "  called  the  impor- 
tant voice. 

A  rather  prim-looking  young  lady  rose  modestly. 
At  the  same  time,  a  dark  and  graceful  girl,  airily 


9o 


A    BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 


dressed  in  India  muslin,  rose  in  an  opposite  corner, 
and,  accompanied  by  an  anxious-looking  lady  in 
widow's  dress,  went  in  the  direction  of  the  voice. 


"Thank  you,  Mr.  Wessen  !  "  said  the  widow,  with  an 
approving  glance  at  Miss  Adams,  as  that  young  lady 
received  the  key  for  number  47.  "  May  I  accompany 
my  niece  to  her  room  ?  " 


A    BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY.  91 

"Certainly,  madam!"  said  Mr.  Wessen ;  and  "By 
all  means,  ma'am  !  "  echoed  Miss  Adams  politely. 

Miss  Adams  led  the  way  with  the  ease  of  an  old 
scholar,  as  she  was  ;  and,  opening  the  door  of  "  47," 
she  said,  "  Here  is  our  sanctum,  Miss  Gonsalez.  -How 
do  you  like  it?" 

"  I  like  it,  and  I  like  you !  "  said  the  dark-eyed  girl 
impulsively,  placing  a  slight  hand  on  her  room-mate's 
shoulders. 

"  Pardon  me,  M*Tss  Adams,  if  I  say  the  same,"  said 
the  elder  lady.  "%My  niece  has  never  been  away  from 
me.  I  wrote  Mr.  Wessen  to  place  her,  if  possible, 
with --well,  in  short,  with  just  such  a  young  lady  as 
you  appear  to  be.  Do,  I  beg  you,  influence  her  to  be 
a  real  New-England  Puritan  maiden." 

"  I  can't  help  being  half  Spanish,  auntie,"  said  the 
pretty  girl. 

"  I  know  it !   I  know  it !  "  said  the  lady  with  a  sigh. 

Miss  Gonsalez  seemed  relieved  when  her  aunt  had 
bidden  her  good-by,  and  had  taken  the  evening  train 
for  Portland. 

"  What  is  your  first  name,  please  ?  "  she  asked  her 
room-mate  as  soon  as  they  were  alone.  "June?  What 
a  lovely  name!  Because  you  were  born  in  June,  I  sup- 
pose. But  if  you  don't  laugh  and  play  some  I  shall 
call  you  November." 

Sedate  as  June  Adams  was,  she  was  charmed  with 
her  gay  little  room-mate,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  see- 
ing her  unpack  her  pretty  dresses. 


92  A   BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 

"You  have  every  thing  nice  imaginable,  Miss  Gon- 
salez,"  said  June  at  last. 

"Call  me  Inez.  Yes,  I  suppose  so,  except  jewelry. 
It  is  a  notion  of  auntie's  that  a  school-girl  should  not 
wear  it.  I've  loads  that  are  to  be  mine  when  I  come 
of  age,  but  I  have  not  even  seen  them  yet.  Auntie 
won't  allow  the  plainest  little  brooch.  Why,  even  you 
have  a  pin  and  a  watch,  I  declare !  and  two  or  three 
rings.  Any  thing  else  ?  " 

"  Bracelets,  but  I  don't  care  for  them  ;  and  ear-rings, 
but  I  never  wear  them  ;  and  -  -  perhaps-  you  would  like 
to  see  it  —  a  necklace  that  was  my  mother's." 

June  unlocked  her  treasure-box,  and  held  up  a  gold 
chain  formed  of  heavy  links.  Hanging  from  it  was  a 
locket  set  in  pale,  clear  stones  of  yellow  topaz. 

It  was  a  sparkling  affair,  and  Inez'  eyes  danced  like 
the  jewels. 

"  Could  I  try  it  on,  one  little  minute  ? "  she  whis- 
pered in  deep  delight. 

"  I  don't  wonder  you  like  jewelry :  it  seems  made 
for  you,"  said  June,  noticing  how  the  eyes  of  the  Span- 
ish girl  lighted  up  till  it  were  hard  to  tell  which  jewels 
sparkled  brightest. 

A  tap  at  the  door  interrupted  the  young  ladies.  Mr. 
Wessen  stood  there,  two  queer-looking  girls  beside 
him. 

"Miss  Adams,"  said  the  preceptor,  "will  you  make 
these  young  ladies  happy  for  half  an  hour  while  their 


A   BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY,  93 

room  is  being  made  ready?  We  were  not  expecting 
them  to-day.  They  are  a  wee  bit  homesick." 

Georgia  and  Lucy  Troop  were  the  new-comers,  and 
they  looked  more  than  "  a  wee  bit  homesick."  Doubt- 
less they  felt  that  they  were  out  of  place  and  out  of 
fashion.  Their  home  was  in  a  remote  part  of  the 
British  Provinces ;  and,  though  they  had  silks,  furs, 
and  jewelry  in  plenty,  every  thing  was  out  of  date. 

June,  with  her  usual  kindness,  made  the  strangers 
welcome  ;  though  she  did  not  fancy  them,  and  was  glad 
when  their  room  was  ready  for  them.  Hardly  were 
they  gone  when  the  supper-bell  rang,  and  from  every 
room  there  was  a  sound  of  departing  feet. 

As  June  was  turning  her  key,  her  new  acquaintance, 
Georgia  Troop,  asked  to  borrow  it.  "  Our  key  is  lost," 
she  explained  ;  "and  Mr.  Wessen  says  we  may  borrow 
yours,  if  you  please,  as  it  fits  our  lock,  till  he  can  get  a 
new  one  for  us.  I  will  hand  it  to  you  directly.'' 

Inez  pouted  in  a  most  disdainful  way. 

"  I  wouldn't  let  her  have  it  if  I  were  you,"  she  whis- 
pered. It  was  at  least  ten  minutes  before  Georgia 
came  into  the  dining-room.  She  laid  the  key  beside 
Miss  Adams's  plate  as  she  passed  on  to  the  seat  as- 
signed her,  and  every  one  noticed  how  awkward  and 
ill  at  ease  she  appeared. 

"  She  has  taken  time  to  rummage  all  over  our  room," 
whispered  Inez  to  June  in  much  displeasure. 

Inez  took  the  key,  and  went  to  "47  "  alone,  as  June 


94  A   BOARDING-SCHOOL   STORY. 

was  demanded  elsewhere.  Inez  fancied  she  saw  many 
things  displaced;  but  one  thing  was  certain,  —  June's 
necklace  was  nowhere  to  be  found.  June  was  dis- 
tressed at  the  loss.  Every  place  in  the  room  was 
searched  with  no  success.  Then,  most  unwillingly, 
she  told  Mr.  Wessen  about  it.  He  delegated  a  lady 
teacher  to  examine  particularly  every  inch  of  number 
47,  and  to  forbid  Miss  Gonsalez  to  leave  the  room. 
June  and  Inez  were  indignant  at  this,  and  swore  eternal 
friendship  when  their  persons  and  their  belongings  had 
been  searched  and  no  necklace  was  found.  Then  Miss 
Troop  and  her  sister  were  "  delivered  over  to  the  cus- 
tom-house officers',"  as  June  expressed  it.  Nothing 
was  found  there ;  but  suspicion  rested  upon  the  unpop- 
ular strangers,  and  they  were  "  severely  let  alone  "  for 
the  entire  term. 

Miss  Adams  and  Miss  Gonsalez,  however,  were  the 
pets  of  the  seminary.  June's  goodness,  as  well  as  her 
good  looks,  made  her  attractive  ;  while  "  the  little  Span- 
ish beauty,"  as  Inez  was  called,  was  always  in  demand. 

The  last  night  of  the  term  the  young  ladies  gave  a 
farewell  entertainment,  inviting  the  teachers  and  a  few 
approved  acquaintances  from  Grove  Village.  As  lively 
Inez  declared,  "  it  was  to  be  a  masquerade  without  the 
masks." 

June  was  to  be  "  Priscilla  Alden."  Inez  was  to  take 
the  part  of  her  namesake  in  the  ballad  — 

"  Oh  !  saw  ye  not  fair  Inez  ?  " 


A    BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY.  95 

The  Troop  girls  were  not  asked  to  assume  any  char- 
acter. Inez  wrote  a  beseeching  letter  to  her  aunt ; 
and,  in  return,  there  came  a  valuable  package  contain- 
ing a  rich  dress,  —  Spanish  lace  over  yellow  satin,  and 
one  set  of  the  jewelry  that  Inez  had  so  often  longed 
to  see. 

"  O  June!"  she  said  in  delight,  as  she  raised  the 
cotton  that  hid  the  -glittering  beauties,  "  here  is  a  com- 
plete set  of  yellow  topaz,  —  ear-rings,  brooch,  bracelets, 
-  and,  oh,  how  much  the  necklace  is  like  yours  !  " 

"  The  very  same  thing,  I  should  say ! "  exclaimed 
June. 

"  Indeed  it  is  not!  "  flashed  Inez.  "Take  back  your 
\vords  this  minute,  or  you  shall  not  see  my  mother's 
picture  in  this  locket !  " 

"My  mother's  picture,  you  mean,"  said  June.  "Do 
you  think  I  don't  remember  every  bit  of  that  necklace  ? 
I  should  know  it  in  Spain  ! " 

"  I  defy  you  to  prove  it  is  your  mother's  necklace !  " 
cried  the  indignant  Inez. 

"  Wear  it  to-night,"  said  June  calmly,  "  if  it  is  any 
satisfaction  to  you  ;  but  before  the  evening  is  over,  it 
will  be  decided  where  the  necklace  belongs." 

Not  another  word  was  exchanged  between  the  room- 
mates. 

Very  sweet  and  prim  June  looked  as  "  Priscilla  Al- 
den,"  that  evening;  and  very  brilliant  was  Inez  in  her 
lace  and  topaz. 


96  A   BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 

The  first  of  the  evening  passed  gayly,  and  "  the  un- 
masked masquerade  "  was  a  success.  Later,  there  was 
confusion  and  whispering  among  the  girls.  A  strange 
gentleman  with  a  military  air  was  seen  to  pass  through 
the  hall  to  Mr.  Wessen's  private  sitting-room.  "  Pris- 
cilla  "  was  summoned  to  leave  her  flax ;  "  Fair  Inez  " 
was  called  also,  and  then  the  Troop  girls. 

"You  say,  Miss  Adams,"  said  the  detective,  after 
requiring  of  her  the  facts  regarding  the  necklace,  "  that 
the  locket  contains  your  mother's  picture  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  My  mother's  picture/'  corrected  Inez  haughtily. 

"  Speak  when  you  are  spoken  to,  Miss  Gonsalez," 
said  the  preceptor  sternly. 

Inez  pressed  the  spring  of  the  locket :  it  flew  open, 
revealing  a  young  Spanish  face  enough  like  Inez,  in  its 
proud  beauty,  to  be  her  mother. 

"  Allow  me  to  take  that  locket  one  moment,"  said 
June. 

Inez  refused ;  but,  Mr.  Wessen  insisting,  she  un- 
clasped the  necklace  and  gave  it  up. 

June  -pressed  a  secret  spring  in  the  reverse  side,  and 
there  was  an  old-fashioned  miniature  of  a  young  gentle- 
man. "  This  was  my  father,"  said  she.  "  The  necklace 
and  locket  were  his  wedding-present  to  my  mother. 
The  miniature  which  Inez  has  taken  out  was  painted 
after  her  marriage.  Here  are  their  names,  and  the 
date  when  the  necklace  was  given." 


A   BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 


97 


Plainly  to  be  seen  in  Old-English  text,  within  the 
cover  of  the  locket,  was  the  inscription  "  Thomas 
Adams  and  Lovice  Gray,  1837." 


"  Miss  Gonsalez'  aunt,"  said  Mr.  Wessen,  "informed 
me  of  her  niece's  besetting  sin  of  stealing ;  but  hoped 


98  A    BOARDING-SCHOOL   STORY. 

that,  with  the  influence  of  such  a  room-mate  as  Miss 
Adams,  she  might  be  restrained  from  taking  what  did 
not  belong  to  her.  A  sad  feature  of  this  case  is,  that 
Miss  Gonsalez  has  allowed  suspicion  to  rest  upon  two 
homesick  girls,  who  have  been  virtually  ostracized  the 
entire  term.  Now,  I  can  say  once  more,''  said  Mr. 
Wessen,  warmly  addressing  Georgia  and  Lucy,  "  what 
I  have  told  you  again  and  again,  that  I  believe  in 
you,  and  that  justice  will  have  her  rights  at  last." 

It  was  a  sad  sight  to  see  poor  Mrs.  Roberts  the  next 
day,  when  she  came  for  Inez.  The  theft  was  bad 
enough,  but  the  meanness  of  putting  it  upon  two 
unhappy  girls  doubled  the  crime. 

Mrs.  Roberts  would  not  allow  her  niece  to  return 
home  with  her,  nor  would  Mr.  Wessen  permit  her  to 
stay  in  the  seminary.  A  boarding-place  was  found  at 
a  quiet  sea-side  village,  with  Inez'  former  nurse. 

The  change  from  being  admired  to  being  shunned 
humbled  the  proud  girl.  At  first  she  was  defiant,  but 
better  feelings  sprung  up.  She  asked  forgiveness  of 
all  she  had  injured,  and  honestly  tried  to  live  right. 

Hull,  the  quiet  place  where  Inez  boarded,  is  a  famous 
resort  for  butterflies.  I  don't  mean  the  "  butterflies  of 
fashion,"  so  called,  but  the  real  butterflies, —  flowers  on 
wings  that  flutter  above  the  wild  geranium  and  golden- 
rod. 

One  August  morning,  as  Inez,  accompanied  by  her 
nurse  and  her  little  cousin  Bertie  Roberts,  was  in  quest 


A   BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 


99 


I 


of  these  butterflies,  she  saw  a  young  lady  approaching. 
The  stranger  advanced  with  the  eagerness  of  an  old 


100  A   BOARDING-SCHOOL    STORY. 

acquaintance.  Inez  did  not  recognize  the  graceful 
young  lady  till  she  had  fairly  offered  her  hand. 

"  Why,  Georgia  Troop  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

A  year  at  Grove  had  improved  Miss  Troop  won- 
derfully. Inez  was  improved  also,  though  she  was 
never  again  the  light-hearted  girl  of  old. 

When  the  fall  term  began  at  Grove,  and  the  young 
ladies  gathered  in  the  old  parlor  to  hear  their  names 
and  the  number  of  their  rooms  as  usual,  Mr.  Wessen 
announced,  "Miss  Troop!  Miss  Gonsalez!  number  47." 

June  Adams  had  graduated.  Lucy  Troop  was  dead. 
Other  changes  made  almost  a  new  place  of  the  Grove 
a  year  ago.  But  there  was  no  such  unpleasant  exhi- 
bition of  vanity,  theft,  and  deceit.  Inez  was  respected, 
having  proved  her  penitence  and  reformation. 


THE  METHODIST  HORSE. 


101 


THE  METHODIST  HORSE. 


'EARS  ago  there  was  a  neat  little  village, 
that  looked  for  all  the  world  as  if  it  might 
be  packed  in  a  box  and  sold  for  a  Christmas 
present. 

There  was  one  street,  and  trees  enough  to 
make  a  prim  row  along  it,  and  houses  enough  to  be 
shaded  by  the  trees,  and  just  one  church. 

By  and  by  somebody  built  a  great  mill ;  and  then 
houses  big  and  small  were  put  up  here  and  there,  and 
soon  a  good  Methodist  minister  held  services  in  dif- 
ferent houses. 


102  THE  METHODIST  HORSE. 

Now,  there  were  three  little  children  who  had  always 
lived  in  "  Their  Village,"  as  they  called  it,  and  thought 
it  was  a  wrong  thing  to  have  any  change. 

The  Methodist  minister  was  a  very  kind  man,  fond 
of  children,  always  spoke  to  them,  and  often  had  some- 
thing good  in  his  pockets  for  them.  You  may  know, 
then,  that  he  was  surprised  one  day,  when  he  was  about 
to  harness  his  horse  and  start  for  the  next  village, 
where  he  was  to  preach. 

He  was  just  slipping  the  bridle  over  the  horse's 
head,  when  a  wild  shout  was  heard ;  and  on  rushed  a 
terrible  army  of  three  children  armed  with  cornstalks. 
"  The  Methodist  horse  !  The  Methodist  horse  !  "  was 
their  war-cry ;  and,  sure  that  they  were  doing  a  good 
thing  to  drive  the  new  religion  out  of  town,  they  did 
not  stop  till-  the  frightened  horse  was  far  enough  away 
to  lead  his  master  a  long  chase,  and  prevent  his  keeping 
his  appointment. 

I've  seen  older  people  act  the  same  way,  but  these 
poor  children  didn't  know  any  better. 


PEARL.  103 


PEARL. 

ISHERMAN  JOE'S  wife  Rachel  was  wiping 
the  dish-pan.  The  blue  plates,  which  half  an 
hour  before  had  served  the  crisp  fried  potatoes 
and  perch,  were  in  their  places  on  the  shelves,  as  well 
as  the  tea-cups  and  saucers.  The  bit  of  a  room  was 
bright  and  warm,  and  the  good  wife  was  the  kind  of 
woman  that  makes  any  room  seem  comfortable. 

Fisherman  Joe's  boat  was  hauled  up  for  the  night. 
But,  to  Rachel's  disappointment,  he  rose  from  the  table 
and  put  on  his  tarpaulin  suit. 

"The  sea  is  powerful  uneasy  sence  the  storm,  Rachel. 
The  tide  is  bringing  in  drift-wood;  and  I've  a  mind  to 
go  down  to  the  beach,  the  moon  is  so  bright,  and  get  a 
mess." 

"  All  right,  Joe,"  replied  Rachel  cheerily.  "  Hold  on 
a  minute,  and  I'll  go  with  you." 

Joe  hesitated  a  moment. 

"  Well,  well,  Rachel,  I  suppose  you'll  say  I've  taken 
leave  of  my  senses :  but  I  had  a  curus  dream  last 
night,  an'  I  ruther  you'd  stay  at  home,  and  have  the  fire 
bright  an'  the  tea-kittle  a-singin',  an'  things  sort  o' 
cosey,  agin  I  come  back." 


104  PEARL. 

Rachel  looked  alarmed.  She  had  a  great  respect  for 
dreams  herself. 

"Why,  Joseph  !  Tell  me,  man.  If  there's  harm  com- 
ing to  you,  I  must  go  too." 

"  It  was  a  good  dream.  Never  you  fret ;  and  don't 
ask  me  what  it  was,  for  I  won't  tell  you." 

With  this  rough  but  kindly  meant  reply  Joe  has- 
tened toward  the  beach,  to  which  the  incoming  tide 
brought  its  arms  full  of  driftwood  and  seaweed  rich 
with  shells. 

Fisherman  Joe  made  a  fine  picture  as  he  stood  there, 
looking  as  anxiously  as  if  he  were  expecting  his  ship 
to  come  in.  His  ship !  Why,  the  poor  man  owned 
only  the  smallest  of  fishing-boats,  and  his  little  un- 
painted  cottage  with  its  three  rooms. 

A  wild  storm  had  raged  all  along  the  coast  two  days 
before.  On  this  third  day  the  sun  had  come  out ;  but, 
as  Joe  said,  "  It  hadn't  cleared  off  good  natur'd :  the 
wind  had  kinder  backed  'round,  and  we  should  catch  it 
agin,  sartain!"  The  moon  shone  but  fitfully.  Ragged 
white  clouds  covered  it  partially,  looking  like  the  rag- 
ged white  waves  below. 

As  Joe  stood  watching  the  fluttering  foam,  a  some- 
thing that  fluttered,  yet  was  not  foam,  caught  his  eye. 
He  darted  forward,  aimed  the  grappling-iron  swiftly 
but  carefully, --brought  in  his  prize.  His  dream  had 
come  true.  He  held  in  his  arms  a  little  child. 

"  She's  dead,   Joe !    dead  as   a  door-nail ! "    said   the 


106  PEARL, 

fishermen  he  met.  But  he  only  smiled,  as  if  he  were 
sure  she  would  be  brought  to  life  again,  supposing  she 
were  dead. 

"  It  is  just  as  I  dream't,  Rachel ! "  he  cried,  as  he 
pushed  open  the  cottage  door,  and  placed  the  frozen- 
looking  little  form,  all  dripping  with  the  sea-water,  in 
his  wife's  arms. 

She  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  that  the  dream  did 
not  mean  that  her  husband  was  to  be  drowned  ;  but 
she  said  nothing  of  that,  —  only  hastened  to  restore  the 
child.  Her  husband  helped,  with  a  hand  as  firm  and 
gentle  as  a  physician's  ;  and  great  was  the  joy  of  the 
worthy  couple  when  the  child's  blue  eyes  opened,  and 
she  swallowed  the  warm  milk  that  Rachel  offered. 

"  I  dream't  I  should  find  her,"  said  Joe ;  "  and  I 
dream't  that  her  parents  were  drowned,  and  that  we 
should  never  find  a  clew  to  them." 

"  I  want  her,"  sighed  Rachel,  giving  a  motherly  hug 
to  the  little  thing ;  "  but  you  know  how  it  runs  in  all 
the  tales  :  these  'almost-dead  darlings  that  are  washed 
ashore  are  oft-times  adopted  by  poor  folks  like  our- 
selves. Then,  when  they've  become  a  part  of  your 
very  heart,  up  turns  a  lord  or  lady,  and  the  poor  man's 
darling  goes  back  to  her  own  parents." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Joe,  "  'twouldn't  be  right  to  keep 
her  ef  'twarit  right ;  but  it's  my  jedgement  that  her 
parents --be  they  lord  and  lady,  or  poor  folks  like  our- 
selves--have  been  drownded,  and  that  our  prayer  for  a 
child  is  answered  in  this  way.  I  dreamt  it,  Rachel." 


io8 


PEARL. 


"Then,  what  shall  we  name  her,  Joe?"  she  said. 
"What  is  the  best  thing  that  comes  out  of  the  sea? '' 

"  Out  of  the  sea  ?  /  don't  know  nothin'  better  than 
mackerel." 


"  Mackerel !  Goodness,  Joe  !  What  a  name  would 
'  Mackerel  Nelson  '  be  for  a  child  !  " 

"  Oh,  you  want  a  name  for  her !  Is  that  it  ?  How's 
Pearl?  That  comes  out  of  the  sea." 

So  "  Pearl  "  she  was  named.     There  was  no  clew  to 


PEARL.  109 

her  original  name.  The  simple  white  nightdress  she 
wore  was  not  marked. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  sartain,"  said  Joe,  as  he 
smoothed  her  flaxen  hair:  "she  can't  be  an  Injun." 

She  came  up  like  a  flower  in  the  humble  little  home 
to  which  she  had  so  strangely  drifted.  Whether  in  the 
cottage  with  her  pets  around  her,  or  playing  on  the 
beach  among  the  boats,  she  was  just  the  sweet  little 
pet  that  the  warm-hearted  couple  had  long  craved.  It 
was  because  their  own  little  girl  had  died  that  they  had 
such  tender  feelings. 

Their  other  child  —  a  rough,  wayward  boy --had 
run  away  to  sea  years  before.  They  never  knew  what 
became  of  him ;  but  in  heaven,  I  think  it  will  be  a  glad 
surprise  to  find  that  their  little  Pearl  was  their  son's 
child.  He  and  his  Norwegian  wife  were  on  their  way 
to  the  little  fishing-village  when  they  were  wrecked. 
But  the  waves  which  covered  them  bore  their  darling 
to  be  the  comfort  of  her  grandparents. 


iio  THE  FIDDLER'S   FARM. 


THE  FIDDLER'S  FARM. 

RANDPA  and  I  were  riding  along  the  river- 
road.  It  was  June,  and  a  thunder-storm  was 
beginning  to  scowl  in  the  west.  Grandpa  was 
just  urging  old  Fan  into  a  trot,  when  we  came 
upon  what  I  called  "  such  a  pretty  scene."  Close 
by  the  fence,  all  among  the  daisies  and  mown  grass, 
with  a  big  dog  for  pillow  and  guardian,  slept  the 
sweetest  little  boy,  while  an  umbrella  shaded  his  fair 
head  from  the  sun.  Near  by,  two  women  and  a  farm- 
hand were  making  hay  with  all  speed,  trying  to  get 
ahead  of  the  shower  evidently. 

"  Hold  on,  please  !  "  I  whispered  to  grandpa.  "  Just 
look  half  a  minute.  Isn't  that  a  pretty  scene  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it !  "  said  grandpa,  frowning.  "  That's 
a  kind  of  women's  rights  I  don't  care  to  see." 

With  that,  he  chirruped  to  Fan,  snapped  his  whip 
sharply  in  the  air, --he  never  would  touch  a  lash  to 
the  faithful  old  horse,  —  and  we  whisked  out  of  sight 
of  the  hay-field  "quicker  than  you  could  say  Jack 
Robinson." 

"  Well,  now,  grandpa !  "  said  I.  "  Who  would  ever 
think  you  were  so  far  behind  the  times  ?  " 


H2  •  THE  FIDDLER'S  FARM. 

"  Oh,  women  are  welcome  to  get  in  the  hay,  if  it 
pleases  them  ;  but  to  think  that  Mary  Ann  Parmenter 
should  have  to  come  to  it !  Mary  Ann  was  the  belle 
of  Farmington,  and  the  daughter  of  the  richest  man 
there. 

"  It  wasn't  the  old  man's  ducats  that-  the  young  fel- 
lows cared  so  much  for ;  but  any  mother's  son  of  them 
would  have  walked  from  Aroostook  to  Kittery  Point 
for  a  smile  from  pretty  Mary  Ann.  And  she  must 
needs  take  up  with  that  worthless  Ira  Dolliver!  Every- 
body knew  that  he  was  a  nobody ;  but  then,  he  could 
sing  and  dance  and  fiddle,  and  the  girls  were  all  be- 
witched about  him.  He  started-  a  singing-school  in 
Farmington, —  it  was  there  that  Mary  Ann  met  him; 
and,  although  he  couldn't  finish  out  the  term  because 
he  was  so  deep  in  debt  that  he  didn't  dare  show  his 
head  in  the  village,  Mary  Ann  had  a  thousand  excuses 
for  him  ;  and  everybody  was  so  surprised  when  it  was 
known  that  she  had  married  the  fiddler! 

"  Her  father  was  too  angry  to  see  her  ever  again  ;  but 
he  had  some  compassion  on  her,  gave  her  that  small 
farm  in  the  outskirts  that  we  just  passed,  —  threw  it  in 
her  face,  you  might  say. 

"  For  a  short  time  Mary  Ann  was  as  happy  a  bride 
as  you  could  wish  to  see ;  but  Ira  soon  showed  his  real 
colors,  —  lazy,  selfish,  and  drunken,  he  did  not  care  how 
things  went  at  home.  He  could  fiddle  and  sing  to 
other  girls  miles  away. 


MISS   MISCHIEF.  113 


"  Mary  Ann  is  a  young  woman,  but  she  is  gaunt  with 
worry,  and  aged  with  man's  work. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  it's  lovely-looking  enough  to  see  the  child 
and  the  dog  among  the  flowers,  and  the  maid  and  mis- 
tress raking  up  the  hay ;  but,  knowing  the  facts  in  the 
case,  don't  ask  me  to  say  '  it's  a  pretty  scene.' ' 


Miss  MISCHIEF. 

^»T 

HAT  was  what  Kittie  Goodenow  was  called  when 
she  was  a  child,  and  I  am  sorry  to  say  she  de- 
served the  same  name  when  she  was  fifteen  years 
old.  At  that  time  she  was  a  pupil  in  Miss  Lee's 
boarding-school  for  young  ladies.  She  was  very  pretty, 
with  her  soft  hazel  eyes,  and  hair  to  match,  —  rippling, 
without  the  aid  of  bandoline  or  crimping-pins,  over 
her  fair  forehead,  and  gathered  in  a  graceful  knot. 

"  She's  a  particularly  guileless-looking  girl,  is  Kit," 
said  one  of  her  schoolmates  ;  "  but  all  I  need  to  ask  of 
a  girl's  looks  is,  '  Has  she  hazel  eyes,  and  are  they 
witch-hazel  ?  '  That's  Kit's  kind." 

It  was  vacation-time ;  and  Kittie  was  presiding  at 
home  over  the  servants  and  her  young  brother  and 
sister.  Her  father  had  gone  to  Florida  for  his  invalid 
wife,  who  was  much  improved  by  her  winter  in  the 
land  of  oranges  and  soft  breezes. 


H4  MISS  MISCHIEF. 


A  thought  came  into  Kittie's  busy  head,  —  a  most 
thoughtless  thought ;  but,  as  usual,  she  was  ready  to 
follow  the  first  plan  that  suggested  itself,  so  she  has- 
tened to  carry  this  out. 

"  It  would  be  so  nice  to  have  a  little  surprise  for 
mamma,"  she  announced  to  her  sister  and  brother; 
"  and  this  is  what  I  mean  to  do.  You  know  that  old 
portrait  in  the  hall,  Maud,  —  that  one  of  the  cunning 
little  girl  ?  Well,  you  let  me  bang  your  hair  and  cut 
off  your  curls,  and  you'll  make  a  lovely  '  her.'  I'll  rig 
you  up  in  sweet  old-fashioned  things,  then  take  out  the 
portrait,  frame  yoii,  and  hang  you  up  instead.  Won't 
that  be  too  lovely  ?  " 

"How  can  you  hang  me?"  said  the  admiring  younger 
sister,  willing  to  be  hung  by  the  neck  if  need  be. 

"Oh!  stand  you  up,  I  mean.  I'll  push  a  tall  otto- 
man under  the  picture,  then  swing  the  frame  outward, 
and  you'll  have  plenty  room.  I  shall  drape  the  lower 
part  of  the  frame  with  green.  All  the  pictures  are  to 
be  trimmed." 

"  And  what  can  /  be  ?  "  said  little  brother. 

"  You  shall  be  that  other  darling  portrait,  and  wear 
my  best  hat  and  feather,  and  mamma's  point-lace. 

"The  fun  of  it  will  be  when  mamma  comes.  She 
will  say,  of  course,  '  Where  are  the  children  ?  '  And  I 
shall  say,  '  Oh,  they're  about  the  house !  I  saw  them 
only  a  minute  ago.'  Then  I  will  hunt  for  you,  and  the 
servants  will  hunt,  and  papa  and  mamma  will  hunt, 


ii6  MISS   MISCHIEF. 


and  we'll  see  how  long  it  wrill  be  before  they  find  you. 
W.on't  it  be  splendid?.  Do  you  suppose  you  can  keep 
as  still  as  little  images  ?  " 

Fairer  than  any  thing  ever  done  on  canvas  \vere  the 
little  living  portraits;  \vhen  the  pleasant  sound  of  car- 
riage-\vheels  announced  that  papa  and  mamma  were 
almost  home. 

Kittie  stood  in  the  doorway  to  greet  them  ;  and,  if 
her  cheeks  were  a  wild-rose  red  \vith  excitement,  it 
were  little  wonder. 

The  expected  question  was  asked,  and  the  answer 
given.  The  servants'  surprise  wTas  the  greatest,  for 
they  all  declared  it  was  but  a  few  minutes  ago  since 
the  children  were  capering  about  from  attic  to  cellar. 

Mrs.  Goodenow  was  just  beginning  to  feel  alarmed, 
when  she  spied  a  tangle  of  golden  curls,  which,  in 
Kittie's  hurry,  had  been  left  on  the  carpet  just  as  they 
dropped  from  her  naughty  scissors.  The  poor  mother 
turned  white,  and  staggered  feebly  toward  the  open 
door  with  the  treasure  in  her  trembling  hands.  The 
sight  was  too  much  for  one  loving  little  portrait. 
With  a  wild  cry  she  sprang  toward  her  mother,  bring- 
ing the  heavy  frame  with  her.  When,  a  moment  later, 
the  startled  family  gathered  in  the  hall,  there  was  little 
Maud  in  a  heap  of  evergreen  boughs  and  fragments  of 
gilded  frame,  and  there  was  poor  mamma  wrhite  and 
still  like  death. 

For  hours   the  good  family  physician  watched  for 


LITTLE    WINNIE.  117 


returning  life;  and,  when  the  dear  eyes  opened,  Kittie's 
joy  was  almost  beyond  control. 

It  would  be  too  much  to  say  that  the  lively  girl 
never  did  wrong  again ;  but  this  sad  lesson  taught  her 
to  be  thoughtful,  and  she  became  her  mother's  faithful 
helper  and  companion,  as  the  right  kind  of  "eldest 
daughter"  is  sure  to  be. 


LITTLE  WINNIE. 

HERE'S  an  odd  little  portrait  hanging  on 
somebody's  parlor  wall.  It  represents  a  cor- 
ner of  that  very  parlor:  a  bright  bit  of  carpet, 
a  register,  the  walls  with  their  simple  olive  paper.  By 
the  register  is  a  child's  willow  chair ;  and  in  the  chair 
the  dear  child  herself,  looking  not  "  like  a  picture,"  but 
just  like  herself,  with  a  yellow  flannel  nightdress,  and 
in  her  arms  a  precious,  battered  old  doll  cuddled  up  for 
by-lo  time. 

This  was  the  picture  that  little  Winnie's  father  saw 
every  night  when  he  came  home  from  town, —  the  pic- 
ture of  little  Winnie  tha't  everybody  loved,  from  the 
old  minister  down  to  dog  and  cat,  rabbits  and  birds. 

Eight  o'clock  was  rather  late  for  three-years '-old  bed- 
time, but  the  indulgent  mother  couldn't  deny  the  wish 
of  both  father  and  child  :  so,  when  Winnie  had  taken 


n8 


LITTLE    WINNIE. 


her  bread  and  milk,  and  was  all  ready  for  bed,  she  was 
allowed  to  sit  in  her  warm  little  corner  till  papa  came, 
and  then  ride  on  his  shoulder  to  her  crib. 


It  was  just  a  few  moments  of  delight,  but  looked 
forward  to  all  day  long  by  both  papa  and  Winnie,  and 
I'm  not  sure  but  mamma  enjoyed  it  as  much  as  any  of 
the  three. 

Then,  when  the  little  fair  head  was  nestled  on  the 


LITTLE   WINNIE.  119 


pillow,  papa  would  always  say,  "  Good-night,  Winnie ! 
I'll  see  you  in  the  morning." 

"  Winnie  will  see  you  in  the  morning,"  the  sweet, 
sleepy  voice  would  echo. 

One  stormy  night  Winnie's  papa  came  home  to  a  sad 
house ;  no  little  Winnie  in  the  bright  corner. 

"  Scarlet  fever,  malignant  form  ;  no  hope,"  was  what 
the  doctor  said. 

"  She  will  not  know  you :  you  would  better  not  see 
her,"  said  the  poor  mother. 

But,  bending  tenderly  over  the  dear  flushed  face,  the 
father  whispered, - 

"  Good-night,  Winnie  dearest  1  I  will  see  you  in 
the  morning." 

The  sweet  eyes  opened  once  more.  "Winnie'll  see 
you  in  the  morning,"  she  whispered  —  and  was  gone. 

She  lay  in  her  little  casket  dressed  in  the  comfortable 
yellow  nightdress,  and  her  precious  old  dolly  folded  close 
in  her  arms. 

When  her  father  kissed  her  good-by,  the  minister 
who  attended  the  funeral  heard  him  say,  "  Good-night, 
Winnie !  Papa  will  see  you  in  the  morning." 

Two  or  three  sad  years  went  by,  and  the  father  was 
taken  as  suddenly  ill  as  his  little  girl  had  been.  He 
was  delirious  from  the  first;  but,  just  before  the  wild 
fever  had  finished  its  work,  he  looked  up  brightly,  and 
"  Good-morning,  Winnie  darling  !  "  were  his  last  words 
here,  and  his  first  words  there. 


120  FAITHFUL    JANET. 


FAITHFUL  JANET. 

H,  do,  Miss   Fisher !     You  can  go  as  well  as 
not.     And  you'll  never  have  a  better  chance." 
It  was    faithful    Janet    that    spoke, — Janet 
with  her  gold-bright  hair  and  sky-blue  eyes, 
that  Baby  Genie  loved  next  to  his  pretty  mother's 
curls,  and  merry  face. 

"  You  know,  Miss  Fisher,"  Janet  went  on  earnestly, 
—  she  could  never  remember  to  say  "  Mrs."  Fisher,  - 
"  I  wouldn't  leave  Genie  out  of  sight  a   minute,  and 
you'd   never  —  I   hope  —  have  the  chance  to  see  your 
sister  married  again." 

Mrs.  Fisher  hesitated  a  moment.  She  had  never 
left  her  nine-months-old  little  one  to  be  gone  over 
night ;  but  it  was  a  temptation  to  see  sister  Bee  mar- 
ried, and  Mr.  Fisher  followed  up  Janet's  persuasions. 

The  result  of  it  all  was,  that  the  three-o'clock  train 
from  Weller  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fisher  on  their  way  to 
Boston  ;  while  Janet  and  Baby  Genie,  equally  happy, 
were  in  the  back  meadow  feeding  the  pony  with  sweet 
June  grass. 

The  little  darling  came  in  then,  quite  ready  to  enjoy 


122  FAITHFUL    JANET. 

his  supper,  and  slide  into  slumber-land.  Janet  laid  the 
rosy  little  sleeper  in  his  crib,  softly  lowered  the  shades, 
and  then,  with  the  cup  of  milk  which  Genie  was  too 
tired  to  finish,  she  started  for  the  kitchen  ;  when  the 
door- bell  rang.  The  sudden  jingle  roused  baby  a  bit; 
and,  while  Janet  lingered  till  her  charge  was  again 
asleep,  the  caller  had  gone. 

Janet  stepped  out  on  the  stoop,  and  looked  up  and 
down,  hoping  that  the  call  was  nothing  of  importance. 

It  had  been  a  hot  summer's  day ;  but  now  a  cool 
wind  was  blowing  a  flame  of  many-colored  clouds  in 
the  west,  and  setting  every  flower  and  leaf  a-dancing, 
rattling  the  blinds,  too,  and,  alas !  —  before  Janet  could 
stop  it --banging  the  door,  clinching  the  spring-lock, 
thus  hopelessly  shutting  her  out  from  her  little  charge. 
Every  other  door  was  locked  also,  and  all  the  windows 
securely  fastened. 

This  house  which  the  Fishers  had  taken  for  the 
summer  was  a  lovely,  but  lonely,  country-seat,  quite  off 
the  main  road,  and  far  from  any  neighbors. 

Janet  would  never  have  dared  to  leave  Genie  alone 
while  she  should  run  half  a  mile  to  the  nearest  house 
for  help.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  break  a  window- 
pane,  and  reach  in  to  undo  the  fastening :  in  fact,  I 
doubt  if  she  would  have  felt  it  was  justifiable  to  do  so. 
But  get  in  she  must,  somehow.  She  raced  around  the 
house  like  a  wild  creature,  and  at  last  spied  an  open 
ventilator  which,  guarded  only  by  wooden  slats,  sup- 


FAITHFUL    JANET,  123 

plied  cool  air  to  the  milk-room.  These  slats  she  soon 
pushed  away ;  and  then,  regardless  of  the  fact  that  the 
little  ventilator  was  hardly  wide  enough  to  admit  a 
child,  she  forced  her  own  compact  shoulders  part  way 
in  with  such  energy  that  she  could  not  get  them  out 
again,  nor,  of  course,  could  she  get  them  in  any  farther. 
There  she  was,  poor  girl,  in  a  vise !  As  it  happened, 
no  one  went  by  that  night ;  and  her  frantic  cries  for 
help  only  mocked  her  in  echoes  from  the  white  walls  of 
the  milk-room. 

The  earliest  provision-dealer,  driving  his  cart  up  the 
grassy  road  to  the  kitchen  door  next  morning,  was  sur- 
prised to  see  what  he  thought  was  a  female  burglar. 
Armed  with  his  cleaver,  he  went  valiantly  to  secure 
her,  but  was  astonished  at  her  rapturous  greeting;  and, 
soon  learning  her  story,  used  his  cleaver  to  good  effect 
in  rescuing  her. 

Together,  then,  they  went  up-stairs,  poor  Janet  so  ill 
and  exhausted  she  could  hardly  step.  There  they 
found  the  young  cherub  who  had  caused  such  anxiety, 
doing  remarkably  well. 

He  had  climbed  over  his  crib  into  a  chair,  helped 
himself  to  the  remains  of  his  supper,  and  had  just 
pulled  over  his  mother's  work-basket,  and  was  having 
a  delightful  time  with  the  forbidden  buttons,  needles, 
and  scissors  that  babies  enjoy  above  all  permitted  toys. 

Mrs.  Fisher  and  her  husband  returned  that  day,  and 
Janet  was  tenderly  nursed  through  the  nervous  fever 
that  followed  her  fearful  night  in  the  ventilator. 


124  THE   SPARROWS. 


It  proved  to  be  the  provision-dealer  who  had  pulled 
the  bell,  and  called  Janet  to  such  an  unlooked-for  expe- 
rience. He  tried  his  best  to  make  amends  by  sending 
all  the  delicacies  of  the  season  to  the  sunny-haired 
invalid. 

If  this  were  a  grown-up  story,  I  could  tell  of  a  Sep- 
tember wedding,  when  the  provision-dealer  was  around 
bright  and  early --but  without  his  cart.  I  think,  how- 
ever, I  will  stop  right  here. 


THE  SPARROWS. 

HIS  surly  dog  does  not  thank  the  sparrows 
for  their  morning  song.  In  fact,  he  would 
rather  not  hear  it.  It  bothers  him,  dis- 
turbs his  morning  nap,  reminds  him  that 
he  can't  pick  up  his  breakfast  anywhere,  and  altogether 
makes  him  uncomfortable.  He  wishes  a  law  had  been 
passed  years  ago,  preventing  the  immigration  of  spar- 
rows into  this  country. 

Our  own  little  sparrows,  Snap  thinks,  are  civil  birds 
enough.  The  song-sparrow  sings  sweetly,  and  knows 
enough  to  go  south  winters,  and  not  haunt  a  fellow's 
kennel-door.  The  chip-sparrow,  too,  goes  south,  and 
stays  till  one  is  really  glad  to  see  him  back.  But 


126  THE   SPARROWS. 

these  English  sparrows !  They  are  not  graceful,  nor 
musical,  nor  have  they  lovely  feathers  ;  and  here  they 
stay  the  year  through,  with  their  everlasting  "  Te-wit ! 

T>  I   » 

1  e-wee ! 

All  the  above  is  Snap's  opinion,  and  the  opinion  of 
some  other  Snaps  who  think  there  is  precious  little 
"  English  reserve  "  about  these  imported  birds.  They 
were  first  brought  to  this  country  from  Manchester, 
England,  in  1856,  and  the  following  spring  set  free  in 
Brooklyn,  N.Y.,  for  the  defence  of  the  trees,  and  the 
people  as  well,  from  the  canker-worms  which  swung 
their  disagreeable  hammocks  from  the  branches  above 
the  sidewalks  so  that  pedestrians  took  to  the  middle  of 
the  streets. 

The  sparrows  were  too  much  for  the  canker-worms. 

But,  notwithstanding  their  social  ways,  they  are 
quarrelsome  at  times  ;  and  the  dear  robins  and  blue- 
birds are  driven  off  as  well  as  the  worms  and  cater- 
pillars. 

I  shouldn't  want  the  sparrows  to  leave,  though. 
Most  cheering  is  the  sight  of  the  little,  chirping  things, 
hopping  about  in  the  winter  snow  or  the  summer  dust, 
twittering  a  song  of  trust  and  comfort  to  many  a  dis- 
couraged soul. 


BETTER    THAN  CANDY. 


12-7 


BETTER  THAN  CANDY. 

R.  HERBERT  BROWN,  bachelor,  was  pack 
ing    his    very  tidy  valise,   when    his    mother 
said,  "  Now,  don't  put  that  in  !     It's  caramels, 

>.L         *  J       "\     » 

isn  t  it? 

"  No,  ma'am !  It's  sugared  almonds  and  gum-drops 
this  time." 

"  Well,  please  don't  teach  those  young  Arabs  to  ex- 
pect something  every  time  you  come." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Brown!"  said  the  young  man.  "The 
idea  of  your  speaking  of  your  own  grandchildren  as 
Arabs ! " 


!2S  BETTER    THAN  CANDY. 

The  fond  grandmother  smiled.  She  loved  the 
"  Arabs,"  and  always  brought  them  candies. 

Mr.  Herbert  packed  his  goodies;  and,  as  he  travelled 
countryward,  he  thought  of  the  "  pure,  disinterested  love 
of  childhood." 

The  children,  Will,  Johnnie,  and  Prissie,  were  play- 
ing horse,  —  the  horse  being  a  good,  steady  log, --but 
they  rode  with  such  spirit  that  little  Growl,  their  dog, 
nearly  wagged  his  small  tail  off  in  excitement. 

As  their  uncle  passed  them  on  his  way  to  the  house 
to  speak  to  his  sister  for  a  few  minutes,  he  said,  "  I 
shall  leave  a  bag  of  candy  for  you." 

This  pleasing  news  made  the  bright  eyes  shine 
brighter,  but  they  were  too  much  interested  in  driving 
to  leave  it  even  for  candy. 

Mr.  Brown  made  his  call,  and  was  passing  down  the 
schoolhouse  hill,  where  the  children  were  at  play,  on 
his  way  to  the  train. 

"  Well,  good-by,  children  !  "  he  said,  "  I  am  going." 

"  Did  you  leave  that  candy  in  that  bag  ?  "  inquired 
Prissie  anxiously. 

"  Yes." 

"  All  the  candy  in  that  bag  ?  " 

"  Yes  !  "  said  the  devoted  uncle. 

"  Well,  good-by,  then." 

But,  for  all  that,  Uncle  Herbert  believes  the  children 
love  him  better  than  candy ;  and  he  is  right. 


MANLY  SPORTS. 


[INGLE,  jerk!  The 
horse-car  was  packed, 
and  lumbered  its  way 
out  from  the  city  streets 
into  the  country,  which 
early  spring  was  trimming 
up  with  maple  tassels  and 
willow  fringe. 

What  a  variety  of  peo- 
ple !  Students,  school-girls, 
dainty  children ;  and  here 
three  sportsmen,  with  rifles 
and  wallets.  "  Tell  ye  1 " 


I2Q 


130  MANLY  SPORTS. 

said  one  of  these  in  a  high,  petulant  voice,  "  I  wouldn't 
give  a  snap  for  your  heavy  gun.  Mine  is  a  nine- 
pounder,  and  she's  perfect.  What  does  a  man  want 
with  any  other  pet,  be  it  horse  or  whatever?  I'd  not 
give  my  rifle  for  any  of  'em.  There  she  is,  bright, 
alive,  responds  to  your  instant  touch.  She's  the  pet 
for  me !  Shot  fifteen  birds,  one  morning  I  was  out; 
and  nineteen  squirrels  last  week." 

"  Poh !  "  said  a  gruff  voice  near  a  second  rifle,  <(git 
out  with  your  squirrels  !  /'ve  shot  seven  b'ars  !  " 

A  golden-haired  child  of  seven  hid  behind  her 
brother's  jacket  at  this.  It  was  a  relief  when  the  three 
dreadful  men  suddenly  left  the  car,  and  stamped  off 
toward  the  Brighton  road. 

"  I  hope  I  shall  never  see  them  again,"  said  little 
Ada,  as  she  and  Tom,  having  left  the  car,  walked  up 
the  garden-path  home. 

"  Oh !  we  may  see  them/'  said  Tom,  with  the  air  of  a 
boy  who  hoped  he  should  see  them.  To  tell  the  truth, 
Tom  thought  it  would  be  a  pretty  nice  thing  to  own  a 
rifle  and  a  fancy  pointer  and  setter,  and  be  able  to 
"  shoot  a  bird  on  the  wing,"  even  if  he  could  never 
boast  of  killing  "  seven  b'ars." 

After  dinner  th^  children  set  forth  on  a  walk  for 
flowers.  As  they  lingered,  watching  a  farmer  turn  up 
the  rich  soil  with  his  ploughshare,  the  sudden,  sharp 
crack  of  a  rifle  was  heard,  and  a  wounded  bird  dropped 
at  their  feet.  Ada  tenderly  gathered  the  quivering 


THE  FAVORED   ONE.  [31 

bunch  of  feathers  in  her  apron ;  and,  when  the  piteous 
eyes  of  the  dying  thing  looked  up  as  if  for  sympathy,  it 
was  Tom  that  gave  it  quite  as  much  as  Ada. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  boy  earnestly,  as  they  walked 
soberly  homeward,  "I'll  never  shoot  for  the  fun  of  it,— 
never ! "      And,  though  Tom   is   now  the  manliest  of 
young  fellows,  he  has  kept  his  word. 


THE  FAVORED  ONE. 

HE  Rev.  Mr.  Smith  was  thirty-five  years  old, 
and  had  a  few  facts  to  think  about.  First, 
he  was  out  of  health ;  second,  he  was  out  of 
money ;  third,  he  had  a  wife  and  three  small 
daughters  ;  and,  as  if  these  were  not  enough  facts  for 
one  man,  on  Christmas  morning  a  fourth  daughter  was 
born. 

A  deep  sigh  shook  the  parish  (or,  was  it  the  winter 
wind?).  But  Miss  Otillia  Hope  Blood  was  happy. 
"  Now  is  my  chance,"  said  she  to  herself.  The  reason 
she  said  it  to  herself  was  because  she  had  no  one  else 
to  say  it  to ;  Miss  Blood  being  an  unmarried  lady, 
rich,  old,  and  lonely.  She  ordered  her  sleigh,  and  drove 
to  the  parsonage. 

"  I  called  on  business,"  she  announced ;  "  and,  as  I 
can't  so  well  say  what  I  want  as  to  write  it,  here  is  a 


132  THE   FAVORED    ONE. 

letter  for  you  to  read  at  your  leisure.  I  sha'n't  be 
offended  if  you  say  me  nay,  though  I  shall  be  dis- 
appointed." 

She  would  stay  to  say  no  more ;  so,  leaving  her  love 
for  Mrs.  Smith  and  the  new  baby,  Miss  Blood  departed. 

This  was  the  letter  she  left :  — 

MR.  AND  MRS.  SMITH. 

My  dear  Friends,  —  I  make  bold  to  propose  the  following. 
Knowing  that  your  three  daughters,  Anne,  Mary,  and  Martha, 
bear  respectively  the  names  of  their  mother  and  grandmothers, 
I  am  not  presuming  on  the  rights  of  near  relatives  when  I  ask 
you  to  call  the  baby  for  me,  —  Otillia  Hope  Blood'. 

I  would  like,  in  this  way,  to  have  a  special  interest  in  the 
child,  and  to  have  that  child  cherish  a  special  interest  in  me. 

You  can  understand  that  the  name  I  propose,  while  it  is  not 
desirable  in  itself,  may  be  of  advantage  to  her. 

Hoping  to  hear  from  you  favorably, 

I  remain  your  sincere  friend, 

O.  H.  B. 

Mrs.  Smith,  who  was  romantic,  though  she  was  poor 
and  a  minister's  wife,  was  already  trying  on  such  names 
as  "  Blanche  "  and  "  Lilian,"  and  wondering  how  they 
would  fit  this  blue-eyed  daughter,  when  she  heard  Miss 
Blood's  proposal. 

"  That  horrid  name  1  "  she  exclaimed.  "  No,  my  dar- 
ling !  we  are  poor,  I  know ;  but  '  a  good  name  is  rather 
to  be  chosen  than  great  riches.'  Pardon  me,  Aaron," 
she  said,  as  a  shadow  passed  over  her  husband's  rev- 
erent face,  "  I  did  not  mean  to  quote  Scripture  lightly." 


THE   FAVORED   ONE. 


'33 


"  I  did  not  notice  what  you  said,  Anne,"  replied  Mr. 
Smith  absently  (he  was  still  dwelling  upon  the  afore- 
mentioned facts}.  "  Really,  that  name  may  be  a  bless- 


ing which  we  ought  not  to  refuse.  '  Otillia  H.  B. 
Smith '  is  not  so  bad  as  it  might  be.  We  must  con- 
sider what  it  will  be  to  the  child  to  have  such  a  patron 
as  Miss  Blood." 


134  THE  FAVORED   ONE. 

So,  with  a  tear  over  "  Blanche  "  and  "  Lilian,"  the 
dear  mother  consented  to  name  her  child  Otillia. 

The  little  one  was  speedily  presented  with  a  rich 
baby's  service  in  silver ;  but  as  Molly,  the  Irish  help, 
said,  "  That  was  neither  drink,  victuals,  nor  clothes,  and 
was  not  worth  the  name  the  pore  swate  baby  had  to 
lug." 

Later  on  in  the  winter,  Mr.  Smith's  ill-health  was 
more  alarming;  and  Miss  Blood  and  others  noticed  a 
tiresome  little  cough. 

About  this  time  Otillia  H.  B.  Smith  received  a  note 
containing  a  check,  with  instructions  that  she  was  to 
send  her  father  to  Florida,  and  pay  the  current  expenses 
of  the  family  during  his  absence,  including  pulpit-sup- 
ply. She  was  also  requested  not  to  let  her  family  offer 
any  thanks  for  the  enclosed,  but  simply  to  do  as  she 
was  bid. 

Otillia's  birthday  was  a  truly  glad  one.  Mr.  Smith's 
health  was  much  improved  by  his  Southern  trip.  A 
gentle  nursery-maid  had  been  sent  by  Miss  Blood,  to 
assist  Mrs.  Smith  in  the  care  of  the  little  ones,  partic- 
ularly of  the  small  Otillia,  who  had  reached  the  button- 
swallowing  and  general-mischief  stage,  and  needed,  so 
Molly  said,  "  to  have  six  men  and  a  boy  to  wait  upon 
her."  Yes,  it  was  a  glad  Christmas.  The  fire  danced, 
the  evergreens  told  their  good  cheer.  Queen  Otillia 
crowed,  while  her  dear  little  sisters  applauded  that  and 
every  thing  else  she  did. 


*     THE   FAVORED   ONE. 


135 


On  that  and  every  succeeding  Christmas,  a  big  box 
found  its  way  to  the  parsonage.  It  was  always  directed 
to  Otillia  Hope  Blood  Smith;  but  it  contained  gifts  for 
each  of  the  family,  —  the  choicest  gift  being  for  "the 
favored  one,"  as  Otillia  was  soon  called.  It  was  a 


mercy  that  the  other  little  Smiths  had  tempers  as  sweet 
as  sunshine. 

When  Miss  Blood's  pet  was  old  enough  to  exist 
without  the  ever-watchful  eye  of  mother  or  nurse,  she 
was  taken  journeys  by  her  beloved  patron. 

One  memorable  summer,  she  went  fifty  miles  away 


136 


THE  FAVORED   ONE. 


to  the  country,  Miss  Blood  fancying  she  would  like  to 
live  for  a  while  in  such  a  vine-covered  cottage  as  was 
described  in  the  "  real-estate "  columns  of  the  news- 
papers. 

Otillia  inherited  the  romance  of  her  mother ;  and  it 
was  with  pure  delight  that  she  took  the  journey,  reach- 
ing "  Rose-Bush,"  as  the  little  villa  was  called,  just  at 
lovely  twilight,  when  the  whole  scene  was  like  en- 
chanted ground. 

Most  children  would  have  been  homesick  on  leaving 
a  lively  circle,  ,and  a  nursery  full  of  little  beds  :  but 

Otillia,  though  dear- 
ly loving  those  left 
behind,  thought  it 
good  fun  to  come  to 
this  strange,  lovely 
place ;  to  sleep  in  a 
little  room  her  very 
own,  with  odd  furni- 
ture that  was  to  be 
hers  to  keep ;  to  have  sunshine  come  to  her  all  painted 
through  the  stained  glass  ;  to  have  a  robin  put  his 
head  through  the  lattice,  and  carol  a  gay  good-morning. 
The  best  thing  about  "it  all  was,  that  Otillia  did  not 
"  put  on  airs."  She  was  just  a  simple  child  in  her 
enjoyment  of  all  good  things.  It  was  a  picture  to  see 
her,  as  Miss  Blood  did  one  day,  standing  by  the  brook, 
with  her  little  sunbonnet  and  simple  apron  and  frock, 


THE  FAVORED   ONE. 


137 


inviting  the  Jersey  bossies  to  "jump  across,  and  she 
would  catch  them  in  her  arms." 

One  day  there  strolled  into  the  Rose-Bush  an  Italian 
boy  and  monkey.  Otillia  enjoyed  the  monkey's  pranks 
as  if  he  were  "  a  man  and  a  brother,"  as  some  wise 


men  think  he  is.  Then  suddenly  she  said  to  the  boy, 
"  Monkeys  and  hand-organs  go  together.  Where  is 
your  hand-organ  ?  " 

"Me  —  no  —  understand,"    replied    the    boy;    but   a 


138  THE  FAVORED   ONE. 

glance  of  his  big  shiny  eyes  showed  that  he  did 
understand. 

The  fact  was,  a  hand-organ  did  belong  with  this 
monkey,  and  a  hand-organ  man  besides.  Bad  old  Gio- 
vanno  was  tired  of  grinding  "  The  Sweet  By-and-By." 
He  wanted  the  sweet  Now,  and  thought  he  might  get 
it  by  robbing  a  rich  old  lady's  house. 

Tasso  and  Trip  -  -  the  boy  and  monkey  -  -  were 
therefore  spies  to  find  out  about  the  doors  and  win- 
dows of  Rose-Bush, --whether  the  silver  was  in  easy 
reach,  and  what  were  the  defences  in  the  way  of  hired 
men. 

Now,  it  chanced  that  a  circus  in  the  next  village  was 
charming  all  the  boys  and  men  that  could  leave  their 
work  to  witness  its  wonderful  sights ;  and  Miss  Blood 
had  given  her  gardener  and  coachman  a  holiday,  and 
her  cook  and  chambermaid  as  well.  They  had  started 
off  after  the  noon  dinner  was  over.  The  simple  supper 
for  Miss  Blood  and  Miss  Otillia  was  already  spread  in 
the  shaded  dining-room, — all  ready  but  the  strawberries 
which  she  was  heaping  in  a  pink  china  bowl, --when 
Tasso  and  Trip  came  upon  the  scene. 

Miss  Blood  was  taking  an  afternoon  nap;  and  Otillia, 
not  wishing  to  disturb  her,  rewarded  them  for  their 
entertainment  with  pennies  from  her  owTn  little  purse. 
The  boy  then  leisurely  strolled  along,  with  occasional 
sly,  backward  looks  which  Otillia  disliked. 

In  a  few  minutes,  as  the  little  girl  was  placing  the 


140  THE  FAVORED   ONE. 

strawberries  on  the  tea-table,  a  rough-looking  man 
dashed  hastily  up  the  walk,  swept  the  contents  of  the 
spoon-holder  into  his  pocket,  then  stepped  into  the 
dining-room  closet,  where  there  were  richer  treasures  of 
table-ware.  As  usual  in  dining-room  closets,  there  was 
a  little  sliding-door  for  the  convenience  of  the  cook  in 
passing  in  desserts,  and  so  on,  to  the  table-girl.  Bridg- 
et, in  her  haste  to  be  off,  had  left  a  hod  of  ashes  beside 
the  kitchen  stove.  Quick  as  thought,  the  child  raced 
into  the  kitchen,  shovelled  a  load  of  the  ashes  as  big  as 
she  could  lift,  flung  back  the  closet-slide,  and,  as  the 
thief,  kneeling  by  the  drawers  to  take  out  the  treasure, 
looked  up  to  see  what  was  the  noise,  he  received  a  dose 
of  ashes  right  in  his  eyes.  It  blinded  him  ;  and,  in 
pain  and  fury,  he  dashed  this  way  and  that,  but  could 
not  find  his  way  out. 

Otillia  was  quick  to  take  advantage  of  his  bewilder- 
ment, and  bolted  him  in  securely,  while  she  blew  the 
horn  for  the  neighbors,  —  that  being  the  understood 
signal  of  distress  in  that  locality.  Tasso  and  Trip 
were  on  the  spot  earliest,  of  course,  but  they  were  not 
admitted. 

Fortunately,  all  the  farmers  were  not  so  neglectful 
of  their  hay-fields  as  to  forsake  them  for  the  circus. 
Enough  men  soon  came  to  the  rescue  to  secure  old 
Giovanno  and  his  black-eyed  son.  The  monkey  went 
along  to  jail  too,  though  he  would  have  been  given  to 
Otillia  had  she  wanted  him. 


THE   FAVORED    ONE. 


141 


I  need  not  say  that  Miss  Blood  was  delighted  to  find 
how  quick  and  cool  her  namesake  could  be  if  necessary. 
She  spared  no  pains  in  her  education,  and  Miss  Otillia 
H.  B.  Smith  became  a  most  lovely  and  accomplished 
young  lady. 

On  the  death  of  Miss  Blood  she  inherited  a  fortune, 
which  she  was  not  so  selfish  as  to  enjoy  alone,  but 
shared  it  equally  with  her  family. 

She  is  married  now  to  a  Mr.  John  Clarendon,  who 
persists  in  calling  his  wife  by  her  second  name  "  Hope." 
Mrs.  Smith's  romantic  notions  are  fully  satisfied  now, 
for  she  says  "Mrs.  Hope  Clarendon  is  too  sweet  for 
any  thing."  But  the  heiress  of  Miss  Blood  will  call 
herself  Otillia  to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 


ABSOLVO  TE:- 


"ABSOLYO 


JHAT  is  what  the  old  frog  said  to  the  sorry  little 
fish.      At   least,  if    he  did   not   talk  Latin,  he 
spoke  in  some  other  foreign  language. 
Frogs  can  converse  in  English  :  when  a  frog  jumps 
suddenly  into  the  water,  he  says  he  went  ker  chunk, — 
exactly  what  some  boys  would  say  to  express  the  same 
thing. 


THE   SMALL   MISSIONARY.  143 

This  frog  in  the  picture  is  a  father-confessor  frog. 
He  thinks  all  the  worms  and  insects  belong  to  himself; 
and,  if  he  spies  a  fish  about  to  take  a  lunch,  he  seizes 
the  dainty  morsel.  But  if  the  fish  is  sorry,  like  this 
gentle  little  penitent,  Father  Frog  rolls  his  eyes  around, 
blesses  the  scared  creature,  and  says,  Absolve  te. 


THE  SMALL  MISSIONARY. 

SETTY  SIMMONS  had  a  very  real  desire  to  do 
good;  but  it  was  tangled  up  with  so  much  self- 
ishness that  the  poor  child  made  a  few  mistakes, 
and  shed  not  a  few  tears,  in  her  endeavors  to  do  right. 
And  everybody  is  like  Letty,  more  or  less. 

After  reading  the  story  of  a  wonderful  child  who  died 
when  she  was  ten,  and  spent  most  of  her  life  distribut- 
ing tracts,  and  taking  goodies  to  the  poor  and  sick, 
Letty  wanted  to  be  like  her. 

But  the  country-place  where  Letty  lived  was  a 
prosperous  village  before  the  days  of  railroads  and  for- 
eigners, and  it  was  hard  to  find  "poverty-stricken" 
people.  The  only  available  objects  in  that  line  seemed 
to  be  the  Pullen  family,  owing  to  Mrs.  Pullen  having 
burned  her  hand,  and  Mr.  Pullen  not  being  able  to  hire 
sewing. 

Letty  grandly  offered  to  fit  out  the  Pullen  girls  for 


144 


THE   SMALL   MISSIONARY. 


Sunday  school ;   but  earned  the  dislike  instead  of 
gratitude  of   the   family,   as    she    boasted   of   the 
throughout  the  village. 

Old  Mrs.  Furlong  had  been  ill  all  winter,  and  L 
had  a  kind  thought  to  take  her  a  basket 
of  eggs ;  for  Letty  owned  a  few  hens, 
and  turned  the  eggs  into  pin-money. 
Hardly  had   she  planned  to  take 
the  eggs  to  her  sick  neighbor, 
when  the  hateful  idea  came 
into  her  mind   (or  was  it 
there   without    com- 
ing?), "Mrs.  Furlong 


the 
fact 

etty 


THE   SMALL   MISSIONARY.  145 


is  very  rich  :  perhaps  she  will  give  me  a  handsome 
present ;  perhaps  she  will  remember  me  in  her  will." 

Letty  should  have  choked  that  mean  thought  the 
moment  it  showed  its  head,  but  she  did  not. 

Carefully  stepping  along  the  snowy  path,  she  reached 
the  door  of  Mrs.  Furlong.  The  nurse  had  gone  out 
for  a  short  walk,  having  made  her  patient  comfortable, 
reclining  against  the  pillows,  a  soft  purple  shawl  folded 
warmly  about  her  shoulders,  a  pet  kitty  sleeping  on  the 
counterpane  at  her  feet,  and  the  cheerful  February 
sunshine  making  diamond  shadows  through  the 
lattice. 

Into  this  chamber  of  peace  Miss  Letty  was  invited, 
and  offered  her  gift  of  "fresh-laid  eggs  from  my  own 
hens." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  give  me  the  whole  cfozen?"  said 
Mrs.  Furlong. 

"  Why,  certainly,  ma'am  !  "  replied  Letty.  "  It  is  our 
duty  to  comfort  the  sick,  you  know." 

Mrs.  Furlong  looked  for  a  moment  at  the  flushing 
face  and  unsteady  eyes  of  the  little  girl.  Sickness 
makes  one  very  acute.  The  loss  of  bodily  strength 
sometimes  sharpens  the  spiritual  faculties.  At  least, 
in  this  case,  the  sick  lady  watched  keenly  the  young 
girl's  face.  She  thanked  her  for  the  eggs,  and  then 
said,  "Could  I  ask  you  for  one  more  favor?  My  nurse 
is  out,  and  I  want  to  look  at  something  in  my  ward- 
robe. You  see  that  key  hanging  by  the  chimney? 


146  THE   SMALL   MISSIONARY. 

Unlock  the  wardrobe-door,  please.  You  will  see  there 
a. tin  box.  Will  you  bring  it  to  me?" 

Letty  eagerly  did  as  she  was  bid.  She  could  not 
keep  her  eyes  away  from  the  treasure-box,  as  the  in- 
valid's delicate  fingers  took  out  chamois-skin  bags  of 
coin,  a  few  old-fashioned  trinkets,  and,  finally,  packages 
of  bank-bills.  These  she  carefully  counted,  and  then 
put  every  thing  back  in  the  box.  Yes,  every  thing ! 
Not  a  brooch,  not  a  ring,  not  the  smallest  coin,  was 
offered  to  the  little  girl  whose  face  now  told  a  story 
plain  enough  to  be  read. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  gravely 
returning  the  box.  "  Will  you  put  it  back  for  me, 
please?  I  just  wanted  to  look  at  it." 

Letty  was  so  afraid  she  should  cry,  she  bade  Mrs. 
Furlong  good-afternoon  as  soon  as  possible,  and  hur- 
ried away.  And  now  that  the  mean  thought  had  be- 
trayed her,  as  mean  thoughts  are  apt  to  do,  poor  Letty 
despised  herself  far  more  than  Mrs.  Furlong  could 
have  despised  her. 

I  think  the  next  time  she  tries  to  do  a  kindness  she 
will  look  out  for  these  bad  second  thoughts,  that  are 
always  on  hand  trying  to  turn  good  into  evil. 


ONE  OF  THE  FAMILY 


HEN  strangers  asked 
Ruth  Porter  how  many 
children  her  father  had,  she 
promptly  answered,  "Three! 
Johnnie,  Bruno,  and  I." 

That  being,  then,  Bruno's  po- 
sition in  the  family,  it  was  little 
wonder  that  the  children's 
hearts  were  almost  broken 
at    being    separated 
from    the   faithful 
dog. 

For    Mr.    Porter 
proposed   emi- 
grating     to 
America    with 
his  family.  He 
could    not    conven- 
iently take   Bruno, 


148  ONE   OF  THE  "FAMILY. 

and  the  dog  was  sold  to  the  richest  man  in  the  county. 
It  was  a  bit  of  comfort  to  the  bereft  children  to  know 
that  the  dear  old  dog  could  sleep  on  a  silken  cushion, 
go  to  ride  with  his  little  new  master,  and  have,  prob- 
ably, no  end  of  petting. 

Bruno  deserved  it  all ;  for,  besides  being  the  most 
delightful  companion  possible,  he  had  actually  saved 
the  life  of  little  Ruth  one  winter,  when  she  attempted 
to  walk  from  the  village  to  her  home  on  the  farm,  a 
distance  of  two  miles.  •  Chilled  and  tired,  she  sank 
down  in  the  snow  where  good  Bruno  found  her,  and 
called  help  by  his  piercing  howls. 

Bruno's  new  master  was  a  spoiled  child  with  an  ugly 
temper.  He  had  a  fashion,  in  his  tantrums,  of  break- 
ing whatever  was  nearest  him ;  and  he  found  the  dog  a 
convenience,  as  he  could  charge  him  with  many  of  his 
own  misdeeds. 

"  It  was  Bruno,"  he  declared,  "  that  smashed  the  par- 
lor mirror.  It  was  Bruno  that  broke  dolly's  head." 

The  boy's  father,  soon  seeing  the  state  of  the  case, 
directed  the  gardener  to  dispose  of  the  dog.  The  man 
took  the  poor  creature  in  a  basket,  the  next  time  he 
went  to  town,  and  left  basket  and  all  at  the  corner  of  a 
street.  Bruno  was  soon  released  by  a  couple  of  news- 
boys ;  but,  breaking  loose  from  them,  he  dashed  over 
the  pavements,  and  was  off  toward  the  open  country. 

At  last  he  reached  an  old  mill,  where  two  schoolboys 
were  standing  in  a  forbidden  place  watching  the  charm- 


150  ONE   OF  THE  FAMILY. 

ing  wheel  go  around  in  the  deep  water.  The  miller's 
apprentice,  vexed  with  the  boys,  was  just  sending  them 
away,  when  Bruno  dashed  among  them,  tired  and  pant- 
ing, and  looking  up  with  appealing  eyes.  The  miller- 
boy,  glad  of  a  chance  to  vent  his  vexation,  seized  the 
dog,  and  hurled  him  into  the  water.  "  And  I'll  send 
you  after  him,"  exclaimed  the  boy  hotly,  "  if  I  catch  you 
here  again!"  and  he  grasped  young  Charlie  Dall  by  the 
collar. 

Charlie  Dall  was  nowhere  near  the  size  of  the  miller- 
boy;  but  he  was  not  easily  scared,  and  was  quick-witted 
as  a  boy  could  well  be.  "Give  us  your  mallet,  Jim," 
he  coolly  called  to  his  companion.  Springing  back- 
ward suddenly,  Charlie  shook  off  the  miller-boy ;  then, 
grasping  the  mallet,  he  reached  out  a  handle  to  the 
sinking  spaniel.  "Grab  it!  there's  a  good  fellow!"  he 
shouted. 

The  dog  obeyed,  and  pulled  for  the  shore.  Charlie 
took  his  dripping  prize  in  his  arms;  and,  in  scornful 
disregard  of  the  miller-boy's  threats,  marched  off  in 
triumph,  followed  by  the  admiring  Jimmie. 

Bruno,  now  named  "  Moses,"  was  beloved  as  much 
as  in  his  earlier  days  when  the  Porter  children  regarded 
him  as  their  brother. 

Charlie  kept  him  during  his  school-days,  and  finally 
took  him  to  America,  where,  in  the  Western  States,  he 
was  to  pursue  his  profession  as  civil  engineer. 

Riding  on  horseback,  one  day,  past  a  schoolhouse  in 


ONE   OF    THE   FAMILY. 


lovely  Iowa,  he  saw  a  young  schoolmistress  escorted  to 
her  kingdom  by  a  crowd  of  sunbonneted  little  subjects. 


As  she  turned  her  pretty  head  at  the  sound  of  the 
horse's  hoofs,  a  glad  brightness  overspread  her  face; 
"Bruno!  Bruno!"  she  cried. 


152  ONE   OF  THE  FAMILY. 

The  spaniel  looked  bewildered  for  a  moment ;  then 
he  bounced  frantically  among  the  alarmed  sun-bonnets, 
and  into  the  arms  of  the  teacher. 

"  What  upon  earth  !  Beg  pardon  !  "  said  the  young 
man,  touching  his  hat.  "  How  did  you  bewitch  my 
dog?  I  don't  blame  him  though,"  added  Charlie  gal- 
lantly. 

"  He  is  an  old  friend,"  explained  the  young  lady. 

"  But  this  dog  does  not  come  from  these  parts  :  he  is 
an  English  dog,"  exclaimed  the  young  fellow  some- 
what proudly. 

"And  I  am  an  English  girl,"  retorted  the  teacher 
with  dignity.  "  A  dog  named  Bruno  saved  my  life ; 
and  do  you  think  there's  any  doubt  about  his  being 
this  Bruno?" 

It  was  little  use  for  Charlie  to  say,  "Moses,  come 
here!"  The  joyful  dog  abandoned  himself  completely, 
for  the  time,  to  his  early  friend.  The  teacher  looked 
at  her  watch  suggestively. 

"  I  will  see  you  later,"  said  Charlie,  offering  his  card. 

He  did  see  her  later,  —  a  good  many  times  later ; 
and,  as  neither  could  be  persuaded  to  give  up  the  dog, 
the  young  engineer  and  the  schoolmistress  agreed,  after 
a  while,  to  own  him  together ;  and,  if  you  should  ever 
visit  a  certain  home  in  Iowa,  you  may  be  introduced  to 
a  spaniel  with  a  double  name, —  Bruno-Moses. 


WELCOME! 


'53 


WELCOME! 


ENTINI,  the  hand-organ  man,  and  Jacko  his 
monkey,  stroll  through  the  city  with  their 
tunes  and  capers,  but  with,  oh,  such  sad  faces ! 
How  do  they  know  whether  they  shall  be  driven  away, 
or  welcomed  with  smiles,  and  paid  with  pennies  and 
apples  ?  One  thing  is  certain  :  it  is  safer,  they  find,  to 


154  WELCOME! 


halt  where  a  baby-carriage  waits  at  the  door;  and,  if  a 
dear  little  baby-nose  is  flattened  on  the  window-pane, 
and  round  eager  eyes  beg  them  to  stop,  then  come  the 
happy  minutes  of  life  to  Jacko  and  Lentini. 

To  many  people  the  hand-organ  is  a  nuisance,  but  I 
would  be  sorry  never  to  hear  one.  It  is  a  sure  sign  of 
clearing  weather  when  "  Molly  Darling  "  sounds  under 
your  window;  and,  if  the  lively  airs  from  "Tancredi" 
trip  over  the  wires  (no  matter  ho\v  much  out  of  tune), 
it  is  safe  to  leave  your  umbrella  at  home,  and  go  to 
your  picnic.  It  is  true  that  some  people  are  in  distress 
when  those  sounds  greet  their  ears  ;  but,  on  the  other 
hand,  there  are  many  that  welcome  them. 

There's  a  lady  in  Boston,  the  wife  of  a  noted  orator, 
who  has  been  for  long  years  an  invalid.  I  am  told 
that  she  hires  a  hand-organ  man  by  the  half-hour  to- 
gether, to  grind  his  cheerful  airs  under  the  window  of 
the  room  where  she  lies.  Another  invalid  used  to  call 
Thursdays  her  cheerful  days,  because  a  hand-organ 
with  unusually  sweet  notes  stopped  at  the  street  corner 
near  by.  And  now  that  the  dear  lady  is  dead,  her 
brown-eyed  baby  daughter  waits  at  the  window  Thurs- 
days ;  and  the  organ-man  is  richer,  not  only  for  the 
ready  pennies  that  patter  on  the  sidewalk,  but  for  the 
glad  little  face  that  does  not  think  the  hand-organ  is  a 
nuisance. 


STUDIES  IN  NATURAL   HISTORY. 


'55 


STUDIES  IN  NATURAL  HISTORY. 

ERE   is   one   study.     The  wise  cat  on   the 
table  looks  as  if  she  could  deliver  a  lecture 
on  Crustaceans;  but  it  is  my  opinion  she 
knows  nothing  whatever  about  them. 
Kitty  number  two   is   in   a  fair  way  to   pursue   her 
studies  still  farther ;  and  it  would  not  be  surprising  if, 


156  STUDIES  IN  NATURAL   HISTORY. 

in  time,  she  could  tell  a  crab  from  a  lobster.  It  is 
safer,  let  me  tell  you,  kitty,  to  read  a  nice  little  story  of 
a  crab  than  to  handle  one  ;  for  they  are  apt  to  take  fast 
•hold  with  their  strong  claws. 

There  are  different  kinds  of  crabs,  some  of  which  are 
considered  quite  a  dainty  dish,  and  are  to  be  seen  in 
the  markets  in  the  proper  season. 

On  the  next  page,  you  will  learn  something  about 
the  crab's  cousin, --the  lobster. 

Scamp,  the  Joneses  pet,  was  always  putting  his  paws 
where  they  had  no  business  to  be. 

Such  a  dainty  basket  as  came  up  from  the  fish-mar- 
ket one  summer  morning, -- lobsters,  pond-lilies,  and 
cowslips .!  Scamp  sniffed  at  the  cowslips,  dragged  the 
pond-lilies  over  the  kitchen-floor,  and  then  offered  a 
paw  to  a  lobster.  The  lobster  took  it ;  and,  oh,  dear ! 
what  did  Scamp  find  out  then  ?  Why,  that  the  lobster 
kept  teeth  in  his  claw,  —  sharp  "  single  "  teeth  in  one 
claw,  and  double  teeth  in  the  other  claw,  and  the  single 
teeth  hurt.  This  is  what  Scamp  is  trying  to  tell  you. 
But  he  does  not  care  to  study  any  more  about  lobsters, 
and  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  the  rest. 

Lobsters  are  sometimes  caught  by  hand  ;  but  oftener 
by  traps  set  in  the  water,  and  baited  with  fish  or  meat. 
The  shell  of  the  lobster  is  dark  green ;  but  when  boiled, 
it  becomes,  as  we  usually  see  it,  a  bright  red.  It  is 
well  to  know  that  the  lobster  never  wears  his  gorgeous 
red  till  he  is  dead. 


STUDIES  IN  NATURAL   HISTORY. 


157 


A  French  artist  who  did  not  know  this  fact  painted 
bright  red  lobsters  sailing  about  in  the  water. 

In  his  dark  green  coat,  the  lobster  is  so  spry  that  he 


can  jump  backward  fifteen  feet  at  a  time  if  he  wants  to. 

Lobsters  would  make  good  soldiers;  for  they  don't 
mind  having  a  claw  or  so  amputated,  as  a  new  one  soon 
grows. 

The  lobster  is  a  good  mother,  and  is  generally  fol- 
lowed about  by  her  timid  children  till  they  are  nearly 


158  £ESSf£'S  FIRST  PARTY. 

as  large  as  she.     Wise  books  say  nothing  about  the 
lobster-father :  probably  he  is  at  the  club. 

But  it  is  as  salad  that  the  lobster  is  most  interest- 
ing. When  his  coat-of-mail  is  cast  aside,  and  he  is 
daintily  served,  accompanied  by  coffee,  ice-cream,  and  a 
party  of  friends,  he  is  a  delightful  study. 


BESSIE'S  FIRST  PARTY. 

'F  course  Bessie  had  her  own  birthday  parties 
with  her  uncles  and  aunties,  and  the  little  neigh- 
bors ;  but  now  she  was  six  years  old,  and  had  a 
grand  printed  invitation  to  a  children's  party  in  a  dis- 
tant part  of  the  city.  The  dainty  invitation  was  de- 
livered by  a  stylish  coachman  whose  livery  was  a  little 
beyond  any  thing  Bessie  had  ever  seen.  She  begged 
her  mother  to  read  again  and  again  the  magic  words,  - 

BIRDIE  HOWARD 

Receives  Jier  friends  February  zy, 
from  four  to  eight. 

Bessie  opened  the  closet-door,  and,  gazing  at  the  bright 
little  w'opl-plaid  \vhich  was  her  best  dress,  said,  "  I 
don't  know  as  this  dress  was  invited." 

"  I  suppose  it  wasn't,  darling,"  said  her  mother  smil- 
ing; "but  you  shall  have  a  new  dress." 


160  £ESSSE'S  FIRST  PARTY. 

"And  look  just  like  Cinderella?"  said  Bessie. 

"  I  dare  say  you'll  see  some  little  ones  at  that  party 
that  will  look  like  Cinderellas  or  fairies,  but  I  don't 
dare  to  dress  my  little  girlie  in  a  '  real  party-dress '  in 
cold  weather.  You  shall  have  something  new  and 
pretty  though." 

When  the  great  day  came,  and  the  dear  little  girl 
was  dressed  in  the  warm  white  cashmere  gracefully 
fashioned, -- her  only  ornament  the  lovely  gold  curls 
that  were  tied  back  with  a  blue  ribbon  to  match  her 
sash  ;  her  happy  little  feet  cased  in  bronze  slippers,  — 
nothing  could  have  looked  sweeter  to  the  eyes  of  the 
home-circle  where  Bessie  lived. 

Long  before  four  o'clock,  the  wronderful  coachman 
came  again,  and  took  Bessie  away  in  a  shell-shaped 
sleigh  lined  with  rosy  velvet  and  warm  with  white  furs. 

She  was  too  young  to  know  that  the  other  little 
guests  wore  most  costly  dresses.  If  she  had  known  it, 
I  don't  believe  it  would  have  spoiled  her  happy  time. 
She  was  an  imaginative  child,  and  was  so  familiar 
with  make-believe  princes  and  princesses,  that  gold  and 
jewels  and  castles  were  as  every-day  as  pebbles  to  her. 

"  I  thought  that  poor  minister's  little  girl  would  be 
just  about  overwhelmed  with  Birdie's  party ;  but  she 
takes  to  it  as  naturally  as  a  duck  to  water,"  said  a  lady 
who  was  there. 

Bessie  enjoyed  the  quiet  games  and  the  noisy  games. 
She  gave  the  tiny  Scotch-wood  workbox, --her  birth- 


MINCE-PIE  FOR   SUPPER.  161 

day  offering,  —  to  Birdie  as  sweetly  as  the  rich  children 
gave  their  costly  trinkets.  She  was  pleased  with  the 
wonderful  supper,  where  every  article  of  food  was  fash- 
ioned into  animal  or  bird.  At  last  the  rosy-lined  sleigh 
cradled  her  again  ;  and,  when  the  black  horses  stopped 
at  the  parsonage  door,  Bessie  was  fast  asleep. 

"  I've  been  to  fairy-land,"  she  said  smiling,  when  she 
woke  in  her  father's  arms,  by  the  bright  blaze  in  the 
parlor  grate.  "  I've  been  to  fairy-land,  but  I  guess  I'd 
rather  live  at  home." 


MlNCE-PlE    FOR    SUPPER. 

was  perfect  November  weather.  The  sky 
was  gray,  the  earth  was  gray,  the  branches 
were  gray.  The  ponds  were  steel ;  the  frozen 
ground  echoed  crisp  to  the  horses'  galloping  feet.  The 
sober  twilight  made  the  bright  home-fires  all  the  more 
cheery.  Red  mittens,  red  stockings,  red  hoods,  were  all 
the  fashion ;  and  delightful  odors  of  Thanksgiving 
floated  up  everybody's  chimney. 

It  was  Tuesday.  Thursday,  as  everybody  knew, 
would  be  the  great  day  of  the  year.  Spheres  of  delight 
in  pumpkin,  in  apple,  in  cranberry,  in  mince,  already 
lined  the  pantry-shelves,  and  made  a  plain  supper  of 
hulled  corn  seem  very  plain  indeed. 


1 62  MINCE-PIE   FOR   SUPPER. 

Hannah  and  Rhoda  sipped  their  milk  in  disdainful 
fashion,  and  gave  their  dear  tired  mother  cross  looks ; 
though  she  kindly  promised  them  what  they  wanted  for 
breakfast,  and  laughingly  quoted  the  old  saying,  - 

"  Mince-pie  is  gold  in  the  morning,  silver  at  noon, 
and  lead  at  night." 

"  Don't  see  any  sense  in  that ! "  whispered  naughty 
Hannah  to  naughty  Rhoda. 

Wasn't  it  a  pity  that  they  should  go  to  bed  so  very 
cross,  and  grieve  that  kind  mother ! 

It  was  a  bright  moonlight  night.  Stars,  were  never 
brighter  too,  and  meteors  flashed  here  and  there  as  if 
the  heavens  were  spilling  over  with  glory. 

The  little  girls  tossed  uneasily  in  their  high  feather- 
bed. 

'  "  It's  so  awful  shiny  I  can't  get  to  sleep,"  complained 
Rhoda. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hannah.  "  How  the  moon  does  come 
through  the  skylight!  It  makes  the  back  stairway 
look  like  a  gold  ladder,  and  the  pantry  must  be  as  light 
as  day.  I  wonder  how  many  pies  are  in  there?  A 
hundred,  I  guess.  Let's  go  and  see !  " 

If  there  were  a  hundred,  there  were  but  ninety-nine 
ten  minutes  later.  Of  course  it  was  a  mince-pie  the 
naughty  girls  took.  So  many  good  things  in  one 
plate  1  —  raisins  and  citron,  currants  and  spice,  apples 
and  meat,  and  cider,  I  suppose,  too ;  for  it  was  years 
ago  that  pie  was  made. 


1 64  MINCE-PIE   FOR    SUPPER. 

The  little  girls  did  not  talk  much  after  they  crept  up 
stairs.  Pretty  soon  the  moon  looked  in  upon  two 
flushed  little  faces  in  uneasy  dreams.  Ah,  what  mixed- 
up,  troubled  dreams !  They  were  reciting  to  teacher, 
and  a  dreadful  committee-man  sprang  out  of  a  bush. 
They  were  running  home,  and  horrible  wolves  were 
chasing  them.  They  were  lost.  A  great  moon  was 
blazing :  they  would  catch  fire.  Both  children  waked 
with  a  start:  "The  moon!  the  moon!"  they  screamed. 

A  loving  mother  gathered  the  frightened  little  girls 
in  her  arms.  "  Not  the  moon,"  she  whispered  :  "  some- 
thing else  that  is  round  disturbs  you.  You  won't  dis- 
obey mother  again ! " 

Two  sorry  little  penitents  promised  good  behavior, 
and  would  punish  themselves  Thanksgiving  Day  by 
only  having  apple,  cranberry,  and  pumpkin  pie  for 
dessert. 


FHE  FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER. 


OR  two  centuries,  in  Eng- 
land, it  was  a  law  that 
November  fifth  should 
be  a  thanksgiving-day,  to  cele- 
brate the  deliverance  of  the  king 
and  parliament  from  the  Gun- 
powder Plot  that  Robert 


Catesby   planned,   and    Guy 
Fawkes  did  —  not  carry  out. 
Great    sport    had    the 
English  boys,  generation 


1 66  THE   FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER. 

after  generation,  in  saving  up  their  money  for  this  day, 
and  exploding  it  in  squibs  and  crackers.  But  chief  of 
all  the  show  was  a  Guy  Fawkes  image  gotten  up  to 
look  as  grotesque  as  possible.  This  image  the  merry 
boys  would  carry  through  the  streets,  and  finally  burn. 

So  popular  was  this  celebration,  that  it  even  crossed 
the  Atlantic,  and  has  been  observed  for  years  in  one  of 
our  Eastern  cities.  A  pumpkin  forms  the  head  of  this 
Yankee  Guy  Fawkes ;  and  those  of  us  who  reckon 
jack-o'lanterns  among  childhood's  joys,  know  very  well 
that  our  English  cousins  can't  get  up  any  thing  more 
hideous  than  a  pumpkin  head  with  a  candle  inside, 
showing  off  the  dreadful  teeth  and  eyes. 

This,  then,  is  the  sort  of  Guy  Fawkes  that  certain 
New-Hampshire  boys  manufacture,  and  carry  through 
the  streets  to  the  music  of  fish-horns. 

Great  fun  for  the  boys  ;  but  solemn  business  it  was 
to  poor  Guido  Fawkes  ! 

He  was  an  English  gentleman  of  good  family  and 
education,  —  the  last  person  to  be  found  in  such  a  wild 
plot !  It  is  only  one  instance  out  of  many,  where  good 
family  and  good  education  may  not  prevent  one  "  mak- 
ing a  Guy  of  himself."  Mistaken  zeal  for  his  religion, 
and,  undoubtedly,  a  spice  of  political  ambition,  led  him 
to  engage  in  Catesby's  plot  to  blow  up  the  king  and 
both  houses  of  Parliament. 

Sir  Guido  Fawkes  did  not  look  in  the  least  like  the 
stuffed  images  that  English  boys  burn  on  the  5th  of 


THE  FIFTH  OF  NOVEMBER.  167 

November.  He  is  described  as  being  of  fine  stature 
and  commanding  appearance.  He  was  sworn  to  be  "a 
man  of  great  piety,  of  exemplary  temperance,  an  enemy 
of  broils  and  disputes  ;  and  his  society  was  sought  by 
all  the  most  distinguished  in  the  Archduke's  camp  for 
nobility  and  virtue."  He  was,  however,  fatally  wrong 
if  he  believed  his  duty  to  God  or  man  required  him  to 
take  the  lives  of  so  many,  in  such  a  shocking  manner. 

He  was  discovered  just  before  midnight,  in  the  vault 
of  the  Parliament-house :  thirty-six  barrels  of  powder 
were  also  discovered  ;  while  upon  Fawkes's  person  were 
found  a  match,  a  tinder-box,  and  some  touchwood.  He 
declared  that  if  he  had  been  within  the  house  when 
taken,  he  would  have  blown  up  house,  takers,  himself, 
and  all. 

He  had  several  confederates,  but  would  say  nothing 
to  implicate  them,  though  he  was  tortured  to  draw  out 
the  desired  information.  It  is  pitiful  to  see  his  signa- 
ture written  before  and  after  his  tortures. 

One  can't  help  feeling,  in  reading  history  of  olden  or 
present  days,  that  the  people  who  do  dreadful  things, 
and  dare  to  call  them  "  religious,"  if  they  would  go 
no  farther  than  the  Ten  Commandments,  if  they  would 
stop  and  think  when  they  read  "  Thou  shalt  not  kill," 
how  much  misery  would  have  been  prevented.  But 
then  there  would  have  been  no  religious  wars,  no  mili- 
tary "  glory,"  no  gunpowder  plots,  and  no  such  lively 
times  for  the  boys. 


768  A    SUMMER    TEMPEST. 


A  SUMMER  TEMPEST. 

HOSE  of  us  who  were  living  on  the  i6th 
of  July,  1879,  wiM  never  forget  the  dreadful 
tempest  of  that  afternoon.  When  the  wind 
and  lightning  were  over,  how  joyful  and  clear  were 
the  skies,  and  how  the  birds  sang !  Flags  flut- 
tered, sails  were  spread  to  dry  in  the  sweet  sunshine, 
and  Nature  behaved  like  a  child  who  has  forgotten  her 
late  naughtiness. 

Not  so  easy  was  it  to  make  faces  bright  again.  The 
fear  and  ruin  of  that  tempest  aged  many  an  one. 

A  waiting  crowd  stood  on  the  wharf  of  a  watering- 
place,  looking  with  eager  solicitude  at  a  wreck.  Could 
they  have  seen  through  the  driving  tempest  a  half-hour 
before,  they  would  have  been  thrilled  with  the  sight  of 
a  life-boat  grandly  manned  in  the  wild  sea,  while  the 
remaining  passengers  were  carefully  lowered  into  its 
shelter.  All  were  thus  rescued  but  one  little  boy,  who, 
wild  with  fear,  jumped  over  the  vessel's  side,  and  was 
seen  no  more  by  his  distracted  friends. 

It  was  supposed  that  he  sunk  at  once  in  that  angry 
sea.  Such,  however,  was  not  the  case.  He  grasped  a 


1  70 


A    SUMMER    TEMPEST. 


floating  board,  and  there  clinging,  was  flung,  like  a  bit 
of  seaweed,  high  up  on  the  beach  not  far  away. 

An  old-fashioned  cottage  stands  by  itself,  a  half-mile 
at  least  from  the  new  villas  in  that  vicinity.     Oh!   this 


is  so  old  that  smoke  may  have  curled  from  its  big 
chimney  when  Capt.  Miles  Standish  was  waiting  for 
his  answer  from  Puritan  Priscilla.  This  was  the  home 
of  fisherman  Nick  and  his  son,  young  Nick  as  he  was 
called. 


172  A    SUMMER    TEMPEST. 

The  father  was  off  in  his  boat,  that  wild  after- 
noon ;  and  the  son,  who  had  been  delayed  in  rowing  a 
pleasure-party  from  the  hotel  to  Strawberry  Hill,  was 
anxiously  looking  up  and  down  the  beach,  after  the 
tempest,  hoping  to  see  some  sign  of  his  father,  when 
he  stumbled  over  this  storm-tossed  little  boy.  Quite 
dead  he  seemed,  but  Nick  was  filled  with  all  the  eager- 
ness of  the  possibility  of  saving  him.  He  rushed  to 
the  cottage  with  his  dripping  burden;  then,  not  waiting 
to  call  a  wiser  head,  he  laid  the"  boy  with  his  head  on 
his  left  arm,  opened  his  mouth,  and  then  gently  rolled 
him  towards  the  left  till  he  was  nearly  quite  over  on 
his  face,  then  on  to  his  back  again.  Persevering  in 
this  method,  he  was  rewarded  in  half  an  hour  by  signs 
of  returning  life. 

Nick's  joy  was  moderated  by  the  impossibility  of 
having  warmth  and  nourishment  right  at  hand.  The 
fire  was  down,  there  was  no  hot  water  of  course,  neigh- 
bors half  a  mile  away.  Oh  for  another  pair  of  hands  ! 
Things  are  always  so  aggravating  when  one  is  in  des- 
perate hurry.  There  were  no  kindlings  prepared,  the 
jack-knife  to  whittle  them  was  obstinate,  the  tea-kettle 
was  empty ;  but  at  last  Nick's  rush  was  over.  A 
cheery  fire  snapped,  the  kettle  sang,  the  old  chest  gave 
out  its  treasures  of  warm  blankets,  and  Nick  held  in 
his  arms  the  pretty  boy  as  live  and  promising  as  one 
could  wish  to  see. 

Old  Nick  returned  in  safety,  and  cooked  a  famous 


STO  UT-HEAR  TED,  1 73 


supper  over  the  coals.  The  telegraph-wires,  which  had 
so  many  shocking  tidings  to  carry  that  evening,  bore 
to  a  city  home  the  blessed  news :  "  Your  Willie  safe. 
Home  in  the  morning." 

The  little  boy  has  many  friends,  but  none  that  he 
will  remember  with  more  gratitude  than  the  fisher-boy 
Nick. 


STOUT-HEARTED. 

HEN  young  Jimmie  Foster  died,  he  left  a 
mother,  a  wife,  and  a  baby-girl,  of  whom  he 
was  the  sole  support.  He  had  been  a  trav- 
elling artist  in  the  days  of  daguerrotypes. 
His  little  family  had  cheap  lodgings  in  town,  and  there 
)ie  lived  with  them  at  odd  times  ;  but  when  the  travel- 
ling was  good  he  went  from  village  to  village,  and 
earned  a  comfortable  living  for  himself  and  family  in 
making  the  wonderful  pictures.  But  there  was  never 
any  money  saved;  and,  when  the  young  man  was  taken 
away  by  a  swift  disease,  there  was  nothing  left  but  the 
car  with  its  small  equipments,  and  the  old  horse  and 
faithful  dog. 

His  wife  and  mother  could  not  carry  on  the  business, 
and  the  proceeds  of  the  whole  affair --horse,  dog,  and 
all  —  would  take  care  of  them  but  a  short  time.  What 
could  they  do  ? 


174  STOUT-HEARTED. 


Grandmother  Foster  had  learned,  in  her  early  days, 
the  art  of  weaving  osier  or  willow  twigs  into  baskets 
ancl  chairs.  It  is  simple  and  pretty  work.  This  art 
young  Mrs.  Foster  acquired ;  and,  together,  the  two 
women  soon  made  a  stock  of  these  attractive  goods. 

I  doubt  if  any  lady,  no  matter  how  well  provided  for 
she  may  be  in  the  basket-line,  can  pass  a  basket-seller 
on  the  street  without  one  sigh  df  longing  for  the  tidy, 
graceful  things.  Think,  then,  how  attractive  a  moving 
car  must  have  been,  decorated  on  the  outside  with  work- 
baskets,  picnic-baskets,  baby-baskets,  clothes-baskets, 
market-baskets,  and  all  kinds  of  baskets.  There  were, 
besides,  brooms  and  brushes,  mops  and  dainty  whisks, 
which  found  ready  customers  in  the  young  dish-washers 
who  disliked  to  spoil  their  hands  for  piano  lessons. 
Inside  the  car,  the  tiniest  of  housekeeping  went  on. 
Every  thing  was  kept  so  tidy,  it  was  a  pleasure  to  peep 
in. 

Basket-making  is  one  of  the  oldest  arts,  and  it  is  as 
attractive  to-day  as  ever.  Even  before  the  time  of 
Christ,  Egyptians  wove  baskets  for  various  purposes. 

But  to  come  back  to  our  travelling  friends.  Pleasant 
as  were  their  summer  trips,  they  looked  forward  to  a 
more  permanent  and  comfortable  home  than  the  basket- 
car.  And,  by  the  time  that  little  Bella  was  old  enough 
to  go  to  school,  the  hard-working  grandmother  and 
mother  had  earned  enough  to  hire  a  comfortable  little 
cottage  in  the  suburbs,  where  they  could  still  make 


176  PLEASURES  AND   PERILS. 

baskets,  and,  at  the  same  time,  enjoy  a  home  like  other 
people. 

"  Be  thankful  for  health  and  a  stout  heart,  Jennie," 
Grandmother  Foster  would  often  say.  "  Thank  good- 
ness, nobody  had  to  take  'round  a  subscription-paper 
for  us/" 


PLEASURES  AND  PERILS. 

seemed  too  good  to  be  true  that  vacation  was 
here,  that  the  Bensons  were  really  going  to  the 
beach,  and  that  the  Hydes  were  going  with  them ; 
for  Belle  and  Brownie  Hyde  had  no  other  playmates 
so  dear  as  Charlie  Benson  and  Leo  his  brother. 

Such  a  choky  day  as  it  had  been  in  the  city!  A  foul 
pink  mist  hung  from  the  State  House  to  the  wharves ; 
but,  as  the  steamer  cut  her  way  loose  from  the  city, 
what  a  different  world  did  it  reach !  The  pure  sea-air 
was  like  wings  that  lifted  you  up  and  flew  away  with 
you  ;  and,  by  the  time  the  short  hour's  trip  was  over, 
the  children  stepped  ashore  with  new  vigor  in  their 
light  feet. 

The  two  families  had  hired  a  cottage  together ;  and, 
with  the  best  Bridget  and  Norah  that  ever  made  chow- 
der and  washed  dishes,  life  looked  free  and  happy. 

For  two  or  three  days   the   children  were   satisfied 


178  PLEASURES   AND    PERILS. 

with  the  pleasures  along  shore  that  had  been  granted 
them.  There  was  the  wading  and  the  bathing,  allowed 
only,  as  Charlie  said,  "  when  an  '  elderkin '  was  with 
them ; "  there  was  the  shell-gathering  and  clam-digging. 
Belle  and  Brownie  found  a  treasure  whom  they  named 
"The  Pleasant  Man."  He  seemed  to  be  a  ship-car- 
penter, with  never  so  much  to  do  that  he  hadn't  time 
to  paint  a  dolly's  dull  eye,  or  to  make  its  little  mis- 
tress's eye  brighter  by  some  wonderful  gay  story  of  the 
sea.  "  Cap'n  Isaac,"  he  was  called;  and  the  children 
thought  it  a  fortunate  thing  that  he  had  leisure  to 
amuse  them. 

Leo  Benson  generally  preferred  to  stroll  off  by  him- 
self, digging  till  he  was  tired,  and  then  enjoyed  one  of 
Bridget's  tarts  or  buns,  —  several  of  them,  in  fact,  - 
while  he  sunned  himself  on  a  pile  of  seaweed,  and 
lazily  enjoyed  the  sights  on  sea  and  shore,  from  the 
gay  excursion-steamers  with  their  flags  and  music,  to 
the  strolling  blind  boy  with  his  dog  and  violin,  who 
shared  Leo's  pennies  and  lunches,  when  the  rather  self- 
ish little  boy  did  not  choose  to  keep  all  for  himself. 

But  the  children  were  not  all  satisfied  for  long  with 
the  safe  pleasures  of  the  beach.  The  ocean  with  its 
many  voices  was  every  day  tempting  them.  It  was 
but  half  a  joy  to  be  rowed  by  somebody  else.  Every 
chance  they  could  get,  they  would  sit  in  a  boat  safely 
moored,  and  play  row;  and  they  were  very  sure  they 
could  manage  a  sail. 


i8o  PLEASURES  AND  PERILS. 

One  bewitching  afternoon,  Leo  and  Brownie  had 
gone  with  the  older  folks  on  a  picnic.  Charlie  had  not 
been  quite  well  the  night  before;  and  it  was  thought 
best  for  him  to  stay  quietly  near  home,  under  the 
charge  of  "  The  Pleasant  Man,"  who  was  generally  to 
be  found  of  an  afternoon  among  the  boats  near  by. 

Belle  begged  to  keep  Charlie  company  :  so,  with  the 
usual  promises  of  good  behavior,  the  children  bade  the 
picnickers  good-by,  and  watched  the  barges  ride  away 
without  a  sigh  of  regret.  For,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  this 
innocent-looking  little  boy  and  girl  had  a  plan  of  daring 
and  delight  that  they  were  longing  to  carry  out.  It 
began  with  a  lie.  Their  parents  had  asked  the  chil- 
dren to  inquire  of  "  The  Pleasant  Man  "  if  he  would 
kindly  look  after  them  that  afternoon.  They  brought 
back  his  usual  reply,  "With  great  pleasure,  my 
hearties."  But  he  did  not  say  it  that  afternoon  :  on 
the  contrary,  he  said  that  he  must  go  off  to  repair  a 
boat  on  Long  Beach. 

That  lie  was  a  bad  beginning,  surely. 

The  barges  were  hardly  out  of  sight  when  the  two 
children,  with  their  picnic-basket  well  stored  with 
goodies,  strolled  down  to  the  beach.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain gay  little  boat  there,  "  The  Waltzer,"  which  they 
boarded ;  and,  after  much  tugging,  they  loosened  the 
rope,  and  drifted  out  to  sea. 

It  was  a  sleepy,  still  August  afternoo^i,-- hardly  a 
motion  in  air  or  sea.  The  boat  scarcely  moved;  and 


the  children,  soon  tiring  of  this, 
managed  to  raise  the  sail. 

Ah,  that  was  better!  And,  to 
make  it  still  more  lively,  little 
sails  were  soon  spread  in  the 
sky.  Clouds  they  were,  that 
were  unfurled  as  briskly  as  if 
eager  little  hands  tugged  at 
them.  . 

Soon     the    whole    sky,    which    had    seemed 
asleep,  was   full   of   these   restless   flying   sails. 
"  The  Waltzer  "  rocked  and  spun.     But  the  ob- 
stinate sail,  which  lent  its  aid  so  readily  to  help 
the  children  off,  was  in  no  hurry  to  get  them 
back.     It  seemed  filled  with  the  mad  spirit  of 
motion,  and  whistled   and   danced;  and   rocked 


181 


182  PLEASURES  AND  PERILS. 

the  boat  in  defiance  of  danger.  The  children  tugged  at 
the.  oars  with  about  as  much  of  success  as  if  they  were 
waving  butterflies'  wings ;  and  this  story  would  end 
right  here,  but  for  "  The  Pleasant  Man." 

His  job  at  Long  Beach  was  a  short  one;  and,  tak- 
ing passage  for  the  little  run  home  on  a  friend's  boat, 
he  spied  "  The  Waltzer "  in  trouble.  Charlie's  small 
handkerchief  —  a  signal  of  distress-- was  fluttering 
wildly,  "  only  raising  more  wind,"  poor  Belle  declared. 

But  they  were  not  rescued  till  they  had  known  all  the 
fright  and  danger  of  an  upset.  From  the  moment  that 
their  hearts  stood  still  with  horror,  and  the  wild  waters 
took  them  in  their  arms,  they  knew  nothing  more  till 
they  opened  their  eyes  in  their  cottage-home.  Not 
a  comfortable  waking.  They  were  still  in  distress. 
Water  seemed  gurgling  all  about  them.  It  was  hard 
to  breathe,  hard  to  think,  hard  to  pray. 

The  lesson  of  disobedience  the  little  ones  never,  never 
forgot ;  and  for  the  rest  of  their  vacation  they  never 
cared  to  venture  beyond  "  The  Pleasant  Man's  "  safe 
moorings.  They  always  felt  that  he  was  their  special 
guardian  angel ;  and  perhaps,  indeed,  he  was. 


A    SUSPICIOUS   CHARACTER.  183 


A  SUSPICIOUS  CHARACTER. 

T  isn't  a  rose,  at  any  rate,"  said  Capt.  Chan- 
ticleer, much  subdued  at  being  in  doubt  about 
any  thing. 

"  A  rose  !  I  should  think  not !  "  gobbled  the  turkey. 
"  Do  you  suppose  I  am  color-blind  ?  Don't  I  know 
reel  when  I  see  it  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  you  might,"  retorted  the  captain, 
"  after  wearing  that  very  unbecoming  necktie  all  your 
life." 

"Of  course  it  is  not  a  rose.     But — is — it — alive?" 

"  Touch  it  and  see." 

"  Touch  it  yourself  !  " 

"  Who's  afraid  ?  " 

Two  valiant  birds  were  afraid  :  that  was  evident. 

Capt.  Chanticleer  suddenly  remembered  that  it  was 
time  to  issue  the  afternoon  edition  of  "  The  Barnyard 
News." 

Turkey-Gobbler  spied,  out  of  the  far  corner  of  his 
eye,  a  little  red  hood  bobbing  along  beside  the  fence. 
He  must  chasse'e  over  to  that  little  red  hood,  and  tell 
it,  —  gobble,  gobble,  gobble,  -  -  in  great  indignation, 


184 


A    SUSPICIOUS   CHARACTER. 


that  his  own  red  necktie  was  —  gobble,  gobble,  gob- 
ble—  a  redder  red  than  any  red  hood  or  any  pair  of 
red  cheeks. 


BETTER   HAVE  STAID  AT  HOME.  185 

Meanwhile,  two  calm  brown  eyes  had  been  looking 
on,  knowing  well  all  about  that  suspicious  character, 
soberly  amused  at  the  angry  talk.  She  bided  her  time 
till  the  farmer's  boy  came  around,  when  she  enjoyed 
her  cabbage  with  a  thankful  heart. 


BETTER  HAYE  STAID  AT  HOME. 

[j$°HESE   picturesque   soldiers,  with  tneir  plumes 

**-^.  ^ 

and  gay  trappings,  were  sent  to  Scotland  to 
make  the  people  there  worship  after  the  fash- 
ion of  King  Charles  the  First, — a  good  enough  fashion 
for  those  that  like  it.  But  the  Scots  didn't  like  it. 

This  meek  little  lassie,  who  seems  to  belong  to  the 
hostelry  near  by,  is  bringing  water  —  or  something 
stronger  —  to  the  English  soldiers. 

An  older  lass,  Janet  Geddes  by  name,  was  not  so 
meek-looking,  I  dare  say,  when  the  English  worship 
was  enforced  upon  the  Scotch  people.  The  Dean  of 
Edinburgh  beginning  to  read  the  liturgy,  his  voice  was 
drowned  in  the  shouts  of  the  people,  and  Janet  threw  a 
stool  at  him.  The  reverend  gentleman  threw  off  his 
surplice,  and  fled  for  his  life. 

After  this  the  king's  troops  were  sent  into  Scotland 
to  enforce  obedience.  The  Scots  carried  the  day;  and 
King  Charles,  who  was  admitted  to  be,  in  private  life, 


1 86 


BETTER    HAVE    STAID   AT  HOME. 


an  estimable  gentleman,  —  but  in  public  "  a  tyrant, 
murderer,  and  enemy  of  the  nation,"  —  was  condemned 
to  death. 

The  people  whom  he  had  oppressed  —  the  Scots - 
plead    for   his    pardon,    France    and    the    Netherlands 
entreated ;    but   in  vain.     He  paid    the  penalty  of  his 
mistaken  zeal  with  his  life. 

As  might  have  been  expected,  a  re-action  of  enthu- 
siasm sprang  up  in  England.  He  was  canonized  as  a 
saint ;  and  the  anniversary  of  his  execution,  Jan.  30, 
was  observed  in  the  Church  of  England  with  special 
religious  services,  as  "  The  Day  of  King  Charles  the 
Martyr."  But,  after  reflecting  upon  the  subject  for 
two  hundred  years,  the  English  people  concluded  that 
Charles  the  First  was  not  exactly  a  saint  after  all ;  and 
the  3Oth  of  January  (as  a  saint's  day)  was  abolished 
by  act  of  Parliament  in  1859. 


1 88  A -HERO. 


A  HERO. 
- . « .  - 

was  a  sickly  little  boy  who  entered  the  royal 
navy  when  he  was  thirteen,  and  became  the 
greatest  of  Britain's  admirals,  that  these  sailors 
are  talking  about. 

Probably  no  hero  ever  kindled  wilder  enthusiasm ; 
and  even  the  biographer  who  attempted  to  give  a  faith- 
ful account  of  his  deeds  was  carried  away  with  admi- 
ration, and  unable  justly  to  condemn  his  unfaithfulness 
to  his  best  friend.  This  biographer  writes  :  "  Let  us 
compassionate  the  one  cruel  frailty  of  a  man,  in  all  else 
as  gentle  and  generous  as  he  was  brave." 

Horatio  Nelson  was  born  in  September  of  1758,  at 
Burnham  Thorpe,  Norfolk.  His  father  was  a  rector; 
but,  like  many  a  minister's  son  before  and  since,  Ho- 
ratio struck  out  in  an  entirely  different  line  from  the 
churchly  habits  of  his  father.  In  the  heat  of  the  battle 
of  Copenhagen,  his  ringing  disdain  of  danger  is  as 
noticeable  for  its  profanity  as  for  its  daring.  He  was 
a  post-captain  before  he  was  twenty-one ;  and  soon 
"  flamed  amazement "  on  the  world  by  his  brilliant 
deeds.  He  lost  his  arm  in  one  assault,  received  in 


190  A   HERO. 

another  a  head-wound  which  prostrated  him,  receiving 
in  exchange  the  delicious  titles  of  "  Lord,"  "  Baron," 
and  "  Admiral." 

If  you  look  closely  at  the  foot  of  the  picture  the 
sailor  is  holding  out,  you  will  see  the  additional  title, 
"  Duke  of  Bronte."  This  was  awarded  Nelson  by  the 
King  of  Naples,  with  a  domain  of  ^3,000  a  year,  for  his 
services  in  driving  out  the  French  from  Naples.  In 
1805,  "he  had  chased  half  round  the  world  a  French 
fleet  of  nearly  double  the  force  of  his  own,  scared  by 
the  very  terror  of  his  name."  On  the  morning  of  the 
2ist  of  October,  in  that  year,  he  met  the  ships  of 
France  and  Spain.  He  met  and  conquered  them,  but 
for  this  last  crowning  victory  gave  the  price  of  his  life. 

The  English  kindle  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  and 
it  is  no  wonder  that  they  admire  him. 

Our  hero  may  not  have  been  so  brilliant,  though 
there  are  diamond  deeds  in  his  military  career ;  but 
Washington  was  reverent,  pure,  faithful  in  public  and 
private  life,  and  well  worth  the  admiration  of  all  boys 
who  seek  a  hero. 


"/   WONDER!"  19; 


"I  WONDER!" 

WONDER,"  said  Mrs.  Piper,  looking  across  the 
street   toward    the    Bixby's,  "why  in  the  world 
young   Bixby  didn't   bring  his  wife  home  from 
Baltimore  with  his  little  girl ! " 

"  Why,  you  dorit  say  he  didn't  bring  his  wife,  Miss 
Piper !  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Piper's  caller,  a  wheezy,  fat  old 
woman  known  as  "  Mis'  Dan'l  Metkif." 

"Not  a  wife  did  he  bring!"  said  Mrs.  Piper,  with 
the  implication  that  he  should  have  brought  two  or 
three  at  least.  "And  what  worries  me"  continued 
Mrs.  Piper,  "  is,  that  I  can't  get  no  satisfaction,  no  how, 
from  nobody.  We  are  the  best  of  neighbors,  us  and 
the  Bixbys.  If  I'm  out  of  coffee  or  saleratus  I  always 
run  over  as  free,  and  borrer  of  the  Bixbys  hired  girl ; 
but  she  don't  know  no  more  than  I  do  about  this  affair. 
It's  an  old  story,  young  Bixby's  failing  in  business,  and 
old  Bixby  offering  his  son  a  home  with  him,  and  a 
share  in  the  mills  here.  And  it's  well  known  to  me, 
Mis'  Metkif, --for  their  Bridget  told  me,  —  that  they 
had  new  lace  curtains  for  the  settin'-room  chamber  be- 
cause Alferd's  wife  was  young  and  fanciful.  But  there! 


192  "/    WONDER!' 


She  never  come ;  and  what's  more,  she  ain't  a-comin', 
so.  Bridget  says.  Old  Mrs.  Bixby  don't  know  A  nor  B 
about  it.  All.  is,  they  expected  her  —  and  she  didn't 
come." 

"Why  don't  you  ask  the  little  girl?"  suggested  Mrs. 
Metcalf. 

"  Mean  to,  fust  chance  I  get.  There  she  goes  now 
to  sit  with  the  Millard  children :  their  mother's  gone 
to  the  city.  I  saw  her,  an  hour  ago,  put  off  with  her 
music-roll.  How  a  married  woman  with  three  children 
finds  time  to  take"  lessons  beats  me !  But  then,  she 
don't  neighbor  a  bit.  I'll  just  run  in  and  see  if  I  can 
find  out,  ef  you'll  excuse  me.  You  know  how  it  is 
yourself,  Mis'  Metkif." 

The  Millard  children  were  cosey  in  their  bright  nur- 
sery, making  little  lonely  Debbie  Bixby  as  happy  as 
they  knew  how.  The  chill  of  our  northern  winter  had 
driven  the  little  Baltimore  stranger  closely  up  to  the 
fender,  where  she  sat  enjoying  the  doll-dressmaking 
which  Grace  Millard  was  busied  about. 

Into  this  pleasant  group  burst  Mrs.  Piper,  with  an 
appearance  of  great  haste. 

"  Excuse  me.  Miss  Grace.  I've  got  a  friend  visiting 
me,  and  she  wants  to  take  the  evenin'  train  (to  Upper 
Billingsville.  Haven't  seen  no  time-table  lately,  and 
thought  mebbe'your  ma  would  be  so  kind  as  to  lend 
me  the  mornin'  paper,  if  she  is  in." 

"  She '  has  gone  to  the  city,"  said  Miss  Grace,  with 


"7    WONDER!" 


193 


dignity,  not  offering  to  put  down  her  sewing  to  look 
for  the  paper,  which  she  shrewdly  suspected  was  not 
really  wanted. 


"Sho,  now!     You   don't  say  she's  out?     Well,  no 
matter,  dear.     But  who  is  this  little  girl  ?  " 

"  Debbie  Bixby,  ma'am,"  said  the  child  politely. 


194  "/   WONDER!" 


''Debbie!  Named  for  your  Grandma  Bixby,  I  see." 
—  No  doubt  young  Bixby  would  have  every  thing  his 
way,  thought  Mrs.  Piper. 

"  No,  ma'am.     I  was  named  for  Grandma  Benoir." 

"  And  shes  dead,  I  suppose  ?  dear  grandma ! "  said 
this  sympathetic  caller. 

"  Why  no,  indeed !  "  Debbie's  brown  eyes  looked  up 
in  surprise.  "  Why,  who  would  be  with  mamma?" 

"Sure  enough!     Who  would?"  said  Mrs.  Piper. 

"  And  so  she  has  gone  back  to  live  with  your  Grand- 
ma Benoir !  " 

Mrs.  Piper,  for  a  few  minutes,  talked  with  the  other 
children,  and  praised  their  curly  hair.  "  Seems  to  me," 
said  she,  coming  back  to  Debbie,  "  seems  to  me  your 
hair  was  long  and  curly  when  you  came." 

"  So  it  was,"  said  the  child  ;  "  but  it  hurt  me  so  to 
have  it  curled  that  Grandma  Bixby  cut  it." 

"  I  suppose  it  didn't  hurt  so  much  when  mamma 
curled  it  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am,"  said  Debbie ;  "  but  still  I  used  to  fuss, 
and  mamma  would  say,  '  I  hope  you  will  never  have 
any  one  hurt  you  more  than  mamma  does.' ' 

"Ah,  poor  dear!"  said  Mrs.  Piper.  "She  see  what 
was  a-comin',  no  doubt.  She  won't  be  coming  on  this 
way  at  present,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  No,  ma'am.  Oh,  dear !  "  and  the  little  girl  broke 
out  suddenly  in  such  a  torrent  of  tears  that  Mrs.  Piper 
could  not  console  her ;  and  saying,  excitedly,  that  it 


'/    WONDER!"  195 


was  no  matter  about  the  paper,  she  hurried  home  eager 
to  report  the  news. 

"Well,  Miss  Metkif,  it's  all  out!  She  ain't  a-comin' 
at  all,  far  as  I  can  find  out,  Mis'  Bixby  ain't.  She  an' 
her  own  mother  are  a-livin'  together  down  in  Baltimore. 
And  that  poor  little  Debbie !  She  is  a-pinin'  herself  to 
death.  They've  ben  and  cut  off  her  hair,  her  father's 
folks  have.  And,  there!  Look,  Mis'  Metkif!  Look, 
do !  Did  you  ever  see  any  thing  more  heartless  than 
young  Bixby  this  minute  ?  There  he  is  a-wavin'  his 
hand  to  his  little  girl  as  ef  he  never  done  such  a  thing 
as  to  separate  her  from  her  mother ! " 

The  next  day,  as  Mrs.  Piper  was  walking  out,  she 
met  Mrs.  Bixby,  little  Debbie's  grandmother. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  curious  neighbor,  "  I  am  very  sorry 
to  hear  that  your  son's  wife  has  such  weak  lungs  that 
she  can't  stand  our  hard  winters." 

"  Her  lungs  are  entirely  strong,"  said  Mrs.  Bixby 
stiffly. 

"  Alfred,"  said  Mrs.  Bixby  to  her  son,  that  evening, 
"why  can't  you  tell  me  frankly  what  the  reason  is 
.that  Matilde  is  not  coming  at  present?" 

"  Promised  not  to  tell,"  said  the  young  man  roguishly. 

"  But  the  neighbors  are  beginning  to  talk." 

"  Let  them  talk.  There  is  nothing  whatever  wrong, 
and  I  am  determined  to  gratify  Matilde  in  this  matter. 
Undoubtedly  she  will  herself,  some  day,  tell  you  all 
about  it.  If  you  do  not  believe  that  we  are  happy,  and 


196  "/    WONDER! 


that  all  is  as  it  should  be,  you  may  read  this  letter ; 
and  he  somewhat  impatiently  tossed  to  her  a  well-filled 
envelope  bearing  the  Baltimore  stamp. 

Mrs.  Bixby  passed  it  back  at  once.  "  I  believe  you, 
my  son,  and  /  am  entirely  satisfied ;  but  outsiders  will 
not  be."  And  outsiders  were  not. 

Business  prospered  with  the  Bixbys,  however ;  and 
before  spring  a  lovely  Queen  Anne  cottage  blossomed 
on  the  hilly  lot  adjoining  Mr.  Bixby's  residence. 

Mrs.  Piper  complained  that  her  eyes  were  really 
getting  affected  watching  the  painters,  as  they  laid  the 
fanciful  new  colors  on  roof  and  pinnacles. 

Meeting  Bridget,  the  Bixbys'  kitchen-girl,  one  even- 
ing, she  plied  her  usual  question :  "  Found  out  any 
thing,  Biddy  ?  " 

"  Niver  a  thing,"  said  Bridget  smoothly,  while  a  sly 
twinkle  brightened  her  eye.  "  But  I  know  Mr.  Alferd 
gets  lots  o'  letters  that  seem  to  cheer  him  up  won- 
derful." 

"  Don't  he  never  say  nothin'  to  Debbie  about  her 
ma?"  asked  Mrs.  Piper. 

"  Forever  talking,"  replied  Bridget.  "  It's  '  mamma ' 
this,  and  '  mamma '  that,  and  '  how  will  she  like  the 
new  house  that  is*  to  be  a  surprise  present  to  her.' 
But  —  if  you  won't  breathe  a  word  —  I  will  tell  you 
something." 

"  Hope  I  may  choke  if  I  speak  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Piper 
recklessly,  at  the  same  time  determining  to  tell  Mrs. 
Metcalf,  and  other  dear  friends,  her  first  opportunity. 


I   WONDER!"  197 


"  Well,"  said  Bridget,  "  the  other  mornin',  whin  I  was 
pitting  Mr.  Alferd's  room  to  rights,  I  knocked  down 
his  coat,  and  out  tumbled  a  letter.  I  can  read,  praise 
to  goodness  !  and  I  saw  it  was  from  Baltimore.  '  An' 
now,'  says  I,  '  it's  becomin'  a  Christian  girl  like  meself 
to  know  what  kind  of  folks  I'm  afther  livin'  with.' ' 

"  And  very  proper  and  right  of  you,  too,  Bridget !  *' 
exclaimed  Mrs.  Piper. 

"  Will,  thin,  I  opened  the  letter  in  a  big  hurry ;  for 
old  Mis'  Bixby  she  do  wear  the  most  aggravatin'  easy 
slippers,  and  come  upon  a  body  unawares.  The  letter 
was  dated  '  Baltimore,  April  the  yth.' ' 

"  No  matter  about  the  date,  Bridget.     Do  tell  on." 

"April --the --yth,"  repeated  Bridget,  with  the  lei- 
surely manner  of  a  novelist  in  a  serial  story.  "  April  - 
the --yth,  1875.  'My  darlin' Alferd,' come  next.  'If 
you've  found  it  best  to  tell  our  secret  to  mother  and 
little  Debbie,  say  that,  after  all  the  distress  and  delay, 
your  new  wife  is  packing  her  trunks  to  come  to  you. 
I  suppose  I  have  been  very  foolish ;  but,  if  you  have 
managed  the  affair  so  that  your  mother's  feelings  are 
not  hurt,  I  am  glad,  indeed." 

"  How  could  a  mother's  feelings  but  be  hurt  to  have 
a  son  behave  so?"  said  Mrs.  Piper.  "But  what  else?" 

"  I  don't  rightly  remember,"  said  Bridget,  "for  Mis' 
Bixby  called  me  about  then." 

"  Something  must  be  done ! "  declared  Mrs.  Piper 
solemnly.  And  so  worthily  did  she  do  that  "some- 


198  «/  WONDER!" 


thing  "  that  a  committee  from  the  church  waited  upon 
young  Mr.  Bixby  the  very  next  evening,  desiring  him 
to  explain  the  current  report  that  he  was  about  to  bring 
home  a  new  wife,  while  the  first  Mrs.  Alfred  was  still 
living,  and  was  not  divorced. 

Young  Mr.  Alfred  declined  to  make  any  statement 
till  he  had  consulted  with  his  parents  ;  and,  even  then, 
he  was  strongly  inclined  to  make  no  explanations.  He 
finally  consented  to  allow  his  mother  to  receive  the 
committee. 

"  I  have  never  seen  my  daughter-in-law,  gentlemen," 
began  Mrs.  Bixby.  "She  was  but  fifteen  when  she 
was  married,  and  is  now  hardly  twenty  years  of  age. 
The  week  before  she  was  to  come  here  with  her  hus- 
band and  child,  she  had  the  misfortune  to  be  thrown 
from  her  carriage,  injuring  her  in  such  a  way  that  it 
was  necessary  to  have  all  her  teeth  removed.  She  was 
unwilling  to  present  herself  to  her  husband's  family 
until  the  dentist  should  have  completed  his  work,  and, 
very  unwisely,  desired  to  keep  the  whole  affair  a  com- 
plete secret,  thinking  —  such  a  sensitive  little  thing  as 
she  is --that  it  would  be  easier  to  meet  us  if  we  knew 
nothing  about  her  injury." 

"  It  is  all  very  unfortunate,"  said  Deacon  Gray,  one 
of  the  committee-men  ;  "  but  there  was  a  pretty  -straight 
story  about  a  letter  from  a  lady  who  called  herself  Mr. 
Alfred's  '  new  wife.' ' 

"The  letter  was  from   Matilde  herself,''  said    Mrs. 


MISS  BLODGETTS  BIRD.  199 

Bixby.  "  She  playfully  called  herself  '  new,'  referring 
to  the  dentist's  repairs." 

The  committee  bowed  themselves  out,  and  made 
another  call  in  the  neighborhood,  bestowing  rebukes 
where  they  were  more  deserved. 

Bridget  never  had  a  chance  to  lend  Mrs.  Piper 
"coffee"  or  "saleratus"  again. 

Mrs.  Piper  still  says  "I  wonder!"  and  people  that 
know  her  are  very  shy  of  her  interrogation  points. 


MISS    BLODGETT'S   BIRD. 

ISS  JEMIMA  BLODGETT  was  not  blest 
with  a  pretty  name  nor  good  looks.  She 
lived  alone,  in  an  unpainted  little  cottage, 
and  supported  herself  by  dressmaking. 
Yet  a  happier  mortal  than  this  same  Miss  Blodgett,  it 
would  be  hard  to  find.  She  had  a  great  love  of  flowers, 
especially  of  the  common  and  usually  unvalued  kind ; 
and  long  before  Oscar  Wilde  discovered  sunflowers, 
she  had  brilliant  ranks  of  the  bold  beauties  blooming 
beside  her  picket-fence,  following  the  sun  from  the 
moment  he  appeared  above  Deacon  Foster's  barn  till 
he  sank  behind  Powow  Hill. 

But  of  all   Miss   Blodgett's  delights,  —  and  she  had 
many, --her  chief  delight  was  her  pet  canary.     It  was 


200  MISS   BLODGETTS  BIRD. 

years  ago,  when  the  Swedish  nightingale  was  filling 
our  land  with  music,  and  Miss  Blodgett  thought  no 
name  so  worthy  of  her  sweet  singer  as  that  of  Jenny 
Lind. 

"  So  he  should  be  called  Jenny,"  she  said  to  him  one 
morning;  while  the  bird  shook  his  wilful  little  head, 
and  apparently  declared  that  he  wished  his  name  to  be 
"  Dickie." 

"  You  shan't  be  '  Dick-ee/ '  retorted  his  mistress : 
"you  shall  be  called  Jenny.  You  warble  now  better 
than  any  opera-singer.  Why  don't  you  hire  a  hall  ?  " 

Then  the  bird,  highly  flattered,  pirouetted  across  the 
table,  mounted  the  mantel  with  a  flirt,  and  rendered  a 
"  cascade  of  trills,"  as  a  music-raver  would  have  said. 

Not  long  after  that  morning,  Miss  Blodgett  received 
a  letter  from  a  distant  city,  announcing  the  death  of  an 
uncle,  whose  will  settled  upon  her  a  comfortable  an- 
nuity, with  the  request  that  she  would  entertain  his 
two  sons  during  their  school  vacations,  and  take  a 
special  interest  in  them. 

•  Living  opposite  Miss  Blodgett  was  a  houseful  of 
girls, --the  Solloways.  There  were  Ruth  and  Lois, 
Belle,  Fanny,  and  Madeline ;  and  they  all  admired  Miss 
Blodgett  and  Jenny  Lind.  Miss  Blodgett,  then,  quite 
naturally  confided  her  bird  to  these  young  people,  dur- 
ing her  absence  at  her  uncle's  funeral,  reasoning  that, 
among  them  all,  he  would  be  sure  to  receive  sufficient 
attention.  But  those  experienced  in  the  care  of  birds 


MISS  BLODGETT'S  BIRD. 


201 


will  agree  with  me,  that  one  might  as  well  trust  a 
Christmas  pudding  to  five  cooks,  as  to  give  one  canary 
into  the  keeping  of  five  girls. 

For  several  days   all  went  well.     The  bird   had  as 
many  waiting-maids   as  a  princess.     Ruth,  being  the 


eldest,  claimed  the  privilege  of  taking  down  the  cage 
and  hanging  it  up ;  while  Lois,  Belle,  Fanny,  and 
Madeline  divided  the  delights  of  filling  the  tiny  bath, 
supplying  fresh  seed  and  water,  washing  the  perches, 
or  putting  tempting  bits  of  sugar  and  chickweed  with- 
in his  reach. 


202  MISS  BLODGETT' S  BIRD. 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  the  inquiry  might 
be  heard,  at  odd  times  of  day,  "  Who  has  attended  to 
Jenny  to-day?  Anybody?"  Fourth  of  July  brought 
its  picnics,  as  usual;  and  the'Solloway  girls  were  much 
interested  in  preparing  for  theirs.  The  day  before, 
every  one  was  busy  enough  in  cooking  goodies,  doing 
up  white  dresses,  or  trimming  shade-hats.  Nobody 
thought  of  Jenny.  He  drooped  like  a  flower  in  his 
brass  prison,  uttering  a  choky  wee  twitter  occasionally, 
as  he  glanced  at  his  empty  dishes.  But  nobody  noticed 
the  starving  canary.  Next  morning,  among  the  Fourth- 
of-July  wrecks  scattered  through  our  beloved  land  was 
poor  Jenny.  I  don't  like  to  describe  the  remorse  of 
the  tender-hearted  girls. 

Poor  Miss  Blodgett  was  taken  ill  soon  after  learning 
of  the  loss  of  her  pet.  She  was  confined  in-doors  all 
winter;  and,  before  the  sunflowers  shone  again  over  the 
picket-fence,  she  had  gone  to  the  land  of  eternal  sum- 
mer. The  doctor  said  that  her  trouble  was  gastric 
fever,  but  the  Solloway  girls  felt  that  the  canary's 
death  was  the  cause  of  her  own. 

The  little  cottage  where  she  lived  is  now  used  as  a 
schoolhouse  for  young  children,  who  delight  in  the 
southernwood,  sweet-mary,  and  larkspur,  which  witb 
sweet  breath  keep  good  Miss  Blodgett  in  remembrance 
as  every  summer  comes  round. 


"HOW  NOW,  GOMEZ?"  203 


"How  NOW,  GOMEZ?" 

'CICLES  dripped  in  the  sunshine;  and  the  Feb 
ruary  air  was  delicious,  —  cold,  pure,  and  sweet, 
-that  is,  out  of  doors.  Inside  the  little  school- 
house  it  was  hot,  close,  and  steamy  with  the 
drying  of  numerous  mittens  under  the  big  box- 
stove.  But  it  would  take  more  than  that  to  dull  the 
spirits  of  our  young  folks,  especially  with  Bill  Baker 
for  the  teacher,  and  Town's  Fourth-Reader  Class  just 
called  up. 

"  We'll  have  a  dialogue,"  announced  Mr.  Baker. 
Accordingly  the  champion  readers  were  requested  to 
take  opposite  corners  of  the  schoolroom. 

The  star  reader  was  the  senator's  daughter,  Florence 
Adams;  a  fine-looking  girl  of  ten.  She  knew  she  was 
a  sort  of  royal  personage  in  the  little  village  where  she 
reigned,  but  she  bore  her  honors  naturally.  Walking 
gracefully  to  the  corner  assigned  her,  she  called  oui  in 
a  clear,  musical  voice, — 

"  How  now,  Gomez  ?     Whence  comest  thou  ?  " 
"From  the  mountains!"   screamed    the  bandit  far 
opposite. 


204  "HOW  NOW,   GOMEZ?" 


The  voice  proceeded  from  a  small  boy  as  unlike 
"  Gomez,"  or  any  other  Spaniard,  as  could  well  be 
imagined.  Little  and  thin  he  was,  with  white  hair,  and 
eyes  that  were  meant  for  hazel  but  failed  for  lack  of 
material,  and  were  merely  a  greenish  white. 

Queer  arrangement,  the  public  school !  In  their 
respective  homes,  some  of  the  pupils  were  as  far  apart 
as  the  poles.  Miss  Florence  Adams's  breakfast  was 
served  in  state,  with  silver  and  china.  - "  Gomez"  -  or 
little  Dan  MacElroy  —  ate  his  on  the  door-step,  or  on 
the  way  to  school,  or  not  at  all,  as  the  case  might  be. 
Florence  was  always  nicely  dressed,  and  was  a  speci- 
men of  what  love  and  care  can  do  for  a  child.  Poor 
Dan  shivered  to  school  in  a  thin  suit  much  too  small 
for  him,  his  only  winter  clothing  a  bright  scarf  that 
bloomed  on  the  sabbath-school  Christmas-tree  for  him. 
He  was  poor,  he  was  homely,  he  was  not  very  good  ; 
but  in  one  respect  Florence  and  he  were  alike,  —  they 
were  both  wonderful  readers,  born  actors ;  and  in  the 
schoolroom,  where  all  distinctions  are  levelled,  they 
were  the  best  of  friends. 

But  the  short  hour  of  triumph  was  soon  over.  Out 
of  school,  "  Gomez "  was  only  Dan  MacElroy.  How 
he  counted  the  remaining  days  of  the  term  as  a  miser 
would  his  gold!  But  summer  was  fast  coming,  —  sum- 
mer that  had  nothing  in  common  for  Florence  and 
"  Gomez."  A  season  of  delight  it  was  for  the  rich 
man's  daughter,  but  a  hard  time  for  the  drunkard's  son. 


"HO W  NOW,  GOMEZ?" 


205 


There  was  to  be  a  birthday 
party  at  the  senator's  house. 
How  did  MacElroy's  boy  know 
it?  No  matter.  He  knew 
very  well  that  it  was  the  4th 


of  August,  and  that  Florence  Adams 
would  be  eleven  years  old.  He  knew,  too, 
that  she  loved  pond -lilies,  wild  cardinal 
blossoms,  and  dewy  blue  flag.  He  was 
off,  before  his  father  had  wakened  from 
his  drunken  sleep, — off,  in  fact,  before  any 


206  "HOW  NOW,   GOMEZ?" 

one  had  wakened  from  any  kind  of  sleep, — when  the 
heavens  were  lovely  beyond  description,  soft  bands  of 
saffron  and  violet  and  pink,  star-spangled,  though  the 
bands  were  deepening  and  the  stars  fading  in  the  grow- 
ing dawn. 

Dan  massed  the  flowers  in  a  little  boat  that  he  had 
made,  in  clever  fashion,  too,  for  a  boy  of  his  years. 
When  Senator  Adams  opened  his  front  door  at  six 
o'clock,  as  was  his  custom  on  summer  mornings,  he 
saw  on  the  door-step  this  gay  little  craft,  with  its 
freight  of  national  colors  in  the  scarlet  cardinal-flower, 
the  white  lily,  and  the  blue  flag.  A  modest  card,  with 
"  Gomez  "  in  a  schoolboy  hand,  did  not  explain  matters 
to  the  senator.  He  placed  the  pretty  offering  upon  the 
sideboard,  and  Florence  appeared  to  enjoy  it  more  than 
any  of  her  birthday  presents. 

But  the  morning  which  was  so  pleasant  to  Dan 
brought  a  sad  day. 

Mr.  MacElroy  woke  more  desperate  than  ever.  He 
was  a  fearful  man  when  his  temper  was  up ;  and  Daniel, 
who  was  not  a  hero,  was  apt  to  obey  his  father  from 
simple  fear,  whether  the  command  was  right  or  not. 
Many  times  he  had  been  for  liquor  when  his  coward 
soul  rebelled  against  it,  but  he  feared  what  would  come 
if  he  refused.  Many  times,  too,  he  had  robbed  melon- 
patches  and  hen-roosts -- never,  never  for  himself - 
from  this  miserable  fear.  Now  MacElroy  demanded 
something  far  harder.  He  had  devised  a  scheme  which 


"HOW  NOW,  GOMEZ?"  207 

would  bring  him,  he  thought,  some  money  without 
working  hard  to  get  it. 

Senator  Adams  had  won  his  position  mainly  by  his 
generous  way.  —  a  way  that  never  selfishly  crowded 
"  No.  i  "  to  the  front ;  a  way  that  acknowledged  any 
favor  and  always  recompensed  it. 

MacElroy  knew  all  this,  and  reasoned  that  if,  in 
some  mysterious  way,  the  senator's  barn  should  be 
found  to  be  on  fire,  and  MacElroy  should  discover  it, 
and  be  foremost  in  putting  it  out,  he  would  undoubt- 
edly be  paid  far  more  than  if  he  should  work  in  the 
senator's  hay-field  for  a  month. 

"  You  are  quick  as  a  squirrel,  Dan,"  said  he  to  his 
son.  "  You  are  keen  as  a  ferret,  Dan.  There's  a  little 
pile  of  shavings  under  the  senator's  barn,  and  all  you've 
to  do  is  to  touch  it  off,  and  scamper.  Nobody'll  see 
you.  You  just  cut  for  the  meadow,  and  lie  down  in 
the  tall  grass  till  you  hear  the  crowd  coming;  then  you 
can  come  on  and  holler,  and  help  with  the  rest.  I  shall 
be  among  the  first  on  the  ground,  and,  through  my 
stren-oo-ous  exertions,  shall  save  the  senator's  barn  for 
him ;  and  he  will,  of  course,  make  it  all  right  for  me." 

MacElroy  saw  the  opposition  in  the  boy's  face. 

"  You  needn't  be  more  nice  than  wise ! "  he  thun- 
dered. "Do  you  see  this  rake?  You  refuse,  and  in 
less  than  two  minutes  I'll  comb  your  hair  in  a  style 
that  won't  leave  you  hair  nor  head  either.  I  mean 
what  I  say." 


208  "HO  W  NO  IV,  G  O  MEZ  ?  " 

Dan  did  not  look  in  the  dark  face.  He  knew  his  father 
meant  what  he  said.  "If  I  must,  I  must,"  he  faltered  meekly, 
and  then  hurried  across  lots  to  the  senator's  barn.  He  dared 
not  disobey  his  father's  commands :  he  had  even  gone  so  far 
as  to  touch  the  match  to  the  shavings,  when  a  voice  floated 
clear  and  musical  from  the  garden-party  not  far  off.  It  was 
Florence  Adams  reciting,  "A  man's  a  man  for  a' that !"  All 
the  manhood  stirred  in  this  miserable  little  boy.  He  now 
began  to  fight  the  fire,  but  it  was  too. late.  A  second's  prayer 
as  he  looked  in  terror  at  the  rising  flames,  and  then  he  gave 
the  alarm. 

Meanwhile  MacElroy  was  waiting  nervously  for  the  first 
smoke-wreath  which  should  assure  him  that  Dan  had  obeyed. 
At  last  the  tell-tale  message  rose  in  airy  curls.  MacElroy 
started  on  the  run,  bawling  "Fire!"  with  all  his  might. 
Arrived  at  the  spot,  he  was  chagrined  to  find  himself  arrested. 

Mr.  Adams's  hired  men  soon  put  out  the  fire.  Then  Daniel 
sought  the  senator,  whom  he  regarded  with  the  greatest  awe, 
and  confessed  what  he  had  done. 

Mr.  Adams  did  not  take  much  stock  in  Daniel's  penitence, 
and  would  have  sent  the  son  to  jail  with  the  father;  but  it 
chanced  that  Dan's  birthday  present  to  little  Miss  Florence 
proved  a  life-boat  for  him.  Her  hearty  interest  in  her  little 
schoolmate  led  her  to  intercede  for  him  with  her  father.  The 
result  was  a  good  education,  political  preferment,  and  an  agree- 
able, cultured  man. 


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Edited     by    THON1A.«    W. 


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